


Field Theory

by machiavelli



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Childhood Friends, Dream Sex, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Protective Tom, Underage - Freeform, dub-con, this will probably get quite dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:07:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 49,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7925314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/machiavelli/pseuds/machiavelli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry first meets Tom the summer of his eleventh birthday, just before they're both due to begin at Hogwarts.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <em>Tom sat up, still panting, and crawled over to the other boy. If he was correct, Harry had just used wandless magic. Not to turn the page of a book, or lift a feather, like most people’s first time, but the powerful kind.</em></p><p>  <em>He’d saved Tom’s life.</em></p><p>  <em>Tom stared down at Harry’s face, as pale as his own, dripping wet, with long black hair plastered to his scalp and beginning to freeze into tendrils.</em></p><p>  <em>Who was Harry Potter?</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Ahoy there!
> 
> This is my first work so would love any and all possible feedback ;-)
> 
> I haven't really written anything for the last four years, so it may take a few paragraphs before my flow gets flowy - just warning you.
> 
> Also if anybody reading this would like to beta, please let me know!

Harry was _bored_. The tall, stiff backed chair dug uncomfortably into his backside, and his feet dangled over the edge, not quite able to touch the floor. The pudding had all been finished an hour ago (admittedly: delicious) and his mother had since been drawn into conversation with the old, bespectacled lady on her left, leaving Harry alone to fidget and entertain himself. 

_This was_ , he concluded, _the most boring Christmas party he’d ever been to_. He couldn’t work out why his parents had thought it necessary to force him into wearing the stupid, itchy formal robe, which rubbed hotly at his neck every time he moved his head. Or the shiny black shoes which pinched his toes. It looked _stupid_. 

____

He glared at the portrait hanging on the wood-paneling across the room with all the fury a ten year old could muster. The old wizard in the portrait tutted and looked back at his books, seemingly unaffected. 

____

His father was seated further down the table, and was sipping on a small glass of amber liquid - also ignoring him. Harry looked around the table as bits of his mother’s conversation floated past him. There were a good twenty guests, all engaged in conversations of varying volumes, and occasionally a bellow of loud laughter would ring out before it could be muffled by a well-mannered hand. At the head of the table was the host, a corpulent dark-skinned man who’s black, beady eyes flitted from guest to guest as he talked. Harry tried not to let his eyes rest on him for too long - he looked scary and his hand had been clammy and bruising as it had enveloped Harry’s in a handshake, when they had first arrived at the start of the night (what seemed like years ago). Seated next to him was Harry’s Godfather, Sirius (whom Harry naturally adored), and his wife Anna. Why couldn’t he be sat next to Sirius? Whoever had designed this stupid seating arrangement had obviously done so with Harry’s detriment in mind.

____

He was broken out of his annoyed musings by the sudden awareness of being watched. The back of Harry’s neck started to prickle; he could feel someone’s eyes sliding over him from further down the table. Swallowing, he slowly turned his head. The heavy stare belonged to a starkly pale boy who looked about his own age, with blue, unreadable eyes to match his dark blue formal robes. Harry furrowed his brow. Despite catching him in the act, the boy’s gaze was still locked on to Harry, cold and expressionless. It made Harry a bit annoyed (and slightly creeped out, though he’d never admit it), and so he broke eye contact first, looking back at his mother to see if she had witnessed it. 

____

She was still talking to the old woman, who was beginning to look distinctly supercilious. His mother was surreptitiously clenching her fist under the table so Harry tuned into their conversation.

____

“…Yes but you see, my dear, it’s _evolution_. Those who come from long lineages of respectable witches and wizards simply have a more refined and able mind when it comes to magic. I mean, take the recent actions of that witch in Croydon… ah yes, Diana something or other. One could argue that she simply wasn’t raised right, and it led to death of three perfectly good wizards. One can’t be too surprised when it comes to mudbloods like that though, I suppose.”

____

Although his mother had a painfully polite smile plastered on her face, Harry could see the tension in her frame. She was trying not to show it but the words were obviously getting to her.

____

“I think I’ll have to respectfully disagree with you there, Mrs. Goyle. The actions of one, albeit deranged person is simply not representative or justifiable to categorise a whole group of people as ‘lesser’.” Lily replied, voice cool. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t use that word in front of my son.”

____

Mrs. Goyle huffed, resettling her shawl around her thin shoulders. 

____

“Well, I don’t think it’s possible for you to be impartial in the matter…”

____

She knew exactly who she was talking to, knew very well that Lily Potter herself came from two muggle parents. The thought made Harry’s blood boil. He was ten but he wasn’t stupid. He opened his mouth to say something, to defend her, but his mother shot him a warning glance. 

____

He... ignored it.

____

“It’s rude to say those kind of things!” He shot at the old crone, eyes flaring with anger. “Just because—”. His mother cut him off.

____

“Harry, enough please.”

____

Harry shut his open mouth, burning with anger. This was stupid. This whole party was moronic, this stupid old lady _was_ rude and now his mother had snapped at him for trying to defend her! He had quite simply had enough. He’d sat through this whole boring dinner party, where the only other person to talk to had taken one look at him and had rather obviously turned in his seat to face the person on his other side. Why did his parents even bring him along? He was usually left at home, and that is exactly where he would be campaigning to be next year. 

____

Harry pushed away from the table and hopped off his chair, scurrying away and out of the room with a huff, ignoring his mother’s soft calls and the sound her chair made when she pushed it back to come after him. As soon as he left the dining hall he broke into a run, eyes filling with a a few tears that he blinked back determinedly. He skidded around a corner and jumped down a half set of green stairs, swerving right and waking up all the snoozing gentlemen in the portraits that lined the hallway, hearing their disgruntled muttering and not caring one bit. 

____

The manor was huge, and after a few more corners he was sure his mother wasn’t following him anymore so slowed down his pace. Another couple of minutes of aimless ambling went by before he came to a small, ordinary looking metal door in the wall, about house elf size. Curious, Harry ducked inside. The passage was dusty and rather cramped, but Harry was small for his age and could happily crawl through. After about a minute of sneezing and shuffling, Harry put his hand out to find the passageway blocked. He’d reached the end - which meant there had to be a handle somewhere. Groping for it successfully, he shoved at the block with his body weight, which opened far too easily and deposited him in the orange wash of the evening winter sunlight.

____

He was outside? The passage must have been used by the gardener, but then why was it so dusty…? Harry shrugged. He didn’t particularly care, and was just happy to have left the stuffy dining hall, with all of its current boring inhabitants. This was more like it - he’d simply explore the manor’s ample gardens, and come in after a few hours when his mother would be sufficiently worried to forget to tell him off for leaving the dinner early. Harry picked himself up, took off his glasses and rubbed them clean on his (now dusty) formal dress robes. Time to look around.

____

 

____

 

____

 

____

Thirty minutes later, he was hopelessly lost and, worryingly, the sun’s light was slowly diluting as it sunk beneath the horizon. Attracted by the sound of splashing, Harry had managed to stumble across a large, black lake, and followed its stony perimeter until he’d reached a rather unkempt patch of trees and grass. It stuck out like a sore thumb from the rest of the intricately landscaped grounds, and naturally drew his curiosity. 

____

He had no idea how to find his way back, but wasn’t panicking too much - after all, someone would find him eventually. His only problem was the temperature: although his parents had charmed his robe to keep him warm, his face and fingers remained bitingly cold in the December frost. Harry sat down with a crunch on a patch of frozen grass, cupping his fingers together in front of his face and exhaling a hot, wet breath to warm them up. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his hands once more, sighing. He wished the boy from before had been less… weird, and more friendly - it would have been way more fun to explore this place with someone else. 

____

Stretching, he opened his eyes - and promptly let out a scream. 

____

Curled up quite contentedly on his lap was a thin, green grass snake about the length of Harry’s forearm. Terrified, Harry froze in place. Were you meant to act dead around snakes? Or was that bears? Weren’t snakes supposed to hibernate in winter? 

____

“Bloody _hell_.” He swore in a high-pitched whisper, staring down at the forked, black tongue that had emerged from between two tiny fangs. He felt the language was appropriate, considering the situation. “How did you even get here?” He muttered to himself.

____

“ _I followed your warmth._ ”

____

Harry stopped breathing for a moment or two. Did that snake just talk? I mean, yes, he was a wizard, but no wizard he knew could understand snakes. 

____

“ _H-Hello…?_ ” He stammered out into the frozen air, half-expecting to be bitten. 

____

The snake slithered itself into a tighter coil, hissing softly, before loosening and sliding over Harry’s lap to his exposed wrist. 

____

“ _It’s cold in the grass… Human boys are warm._ ” The snake explained patiently, wrapping itself around Harry’s arm, much to his dismay. 

____

“ _I-I see._ ” He replied, feeling rather lightheaded. “ _How are you talking to me?_ ”

____

“ _You are the one who is talking to me._ ” The snake snarked back. 

____

“ _Oh._ ” The snake was sliding further up his arm, dipping beneath the sleeve of his robe and nosing towards his armpit. It tickled and was slightly horrifying at the same time. “ _Do you have a name? Or do snakes not have names?_ ” 

____

“ _The other one calls me Nagini._ ”

____

Other one? Someone else could talk to Nagini? Maybe they could explain what was going on…

____

“ _Tom. He feeds me mice, you know._ ” The Nagini hissed conspiratorially. Harry hadn’t realised he’d voiced the question out loud.

____

“ _I er, don’t have any mice. Sorry. I do have a sweet though, I think._ ” He routed around in one of the hidden pockets on his scratchy black robe for a couple of seconds, before retrieving an empty wrapper guiltily. “ _Sorry._ ” He apologised again. Harry thought he could sense an air of disappointment coming from his left armpit. “ _Who’s Tom?_ ” He suddenly remembered to ask belatedly. 

____

The snake constricted around him for a short moment, briefly poking her head out of his collar before answering: “ _He’s standing behind you._ ”

____

Harry jumped to his feet, and whirled around. Standing a few meters away, leaning in the long shadow of the winter skeleton of a tree was the strange boy from earlier, who Harry had caught staring at him over the dinner table. Unsurprisingly, he was staring again. This time, Harry thought he looked a little surprised: his eyes were widened in the palest imitations of shock, and his mouth was slightly parted, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Within a second of Harry turning round though, his countenance had returned to a blank slate. 

____

The boy - Tom - was slightly taller than Harry, lean and pale, and his formal dress robes and hair were in perfect order (Harry was begrudgingly impressed - he could never keep his robes neat for more than five minutes, and his hair... well, he and his parents both knew it was a lost cause). Behind him, the lake looked distinctly black and uninviting, with strange flashes of purple as it reflected the last of the sun. 

____

Tom pushed himself off the tree and slowly walked forwards towards Harry, breaking the silence.

____

“Who, exactly, are you?”

____

His voice was quite low for a child’s, and his pronunciation was perfectly cold; it immediately put Harry on edge. The snake tightened again, gently squeezing as if reminding him to respond.

____

“Harry James Potter." Harry replied, churlishly confident. "Who are you?”

____

“Pleased to meet you Harry. My name is Tom.” Tom frowned and stepped closer. “I’d like you to tell me what you were doing with Nagini.”

____

At the mention of her name, Nagini wormed her way out of Harry’s collar, winding along his arm towards Tom’s outstretched fingers. Harry felt a bit bereft.

____

“I wasn’t trying to steal her,” Harry protested, mistaking the curious stare for reproach, “She just started talking to me. I think she was cold.” 

____

“ _Human boys are warm._ ” Nagini agreed, slipping under Tom’s robe.

____

A speculative look passed over the other boy’s face - the same one he’d worn when Harry had first seen him. “You can understand her?”

____

“ _Well. Yes._ ” 

____

“How fascinating.” Tom murmured. Harry privately agreed.

____

“ _How can you understand her? I mean, we. Why can we understand her?_ ” Harry asked, looking up at Tom. The other boy’s eyes were so dark they could be mistaken for black in the fading light, tracking over Harry in a cool assessment.

____

“ _It’s called Parseltongue. It means that somehow… both you and I are direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin._ ”

____

Harry wrinkled his nose. Slytherin was the worst - his father had told him countless stories about the kind of slimy stuck-ups in Slytherin. Surely if he was descended from Salazar Slytherin himself, his parents would have at least told him. 

____

Tom ignored the look of distaste, instead looking down at Nagini, who was suddenly uncoiling from his arm. The snake dropped softly to the ground where she weaved in and out on her belly on the frozen grass.

____

“ _I hear prey. I will go and feed now._ ” She hissed, tongue flicking out to taste the air before darting off in the direction of the longer grass. 

____

Tom nodded, then turned his attention to Harry, who was staring off in the direction the snake had disappeared, still coming to terms with the knowledge Tom had imparted.

____

Tom cleared his throat. “Your mother asked me to fetch you. The dinner is winding down and she would like to leave soon.”

____

All at once Harry’s expression soured. 

____

“Brilliant. I can’t stand half of those people, especially Mrs. Goyle. Most of them are stuck-up idiots.”

____

Tom raised an eyebrow sardonically. “I assume your dislike of the esteemed Mrs. Goyle stems from her views on the subject of muggles, for which she is well known for voraciously expressing to each and every person that bothers to listen.”

____

Harry didn’t know what voraciously meant. He chose, honourably, to move on.

____

“If everyone shares her view, I don’t understand why we’re even invited to these events.” Harry said bitterly. “They all know my mother didn’t come from a ‘proper wizarding background’.”

____

“I imagine it’s largely due to your father’s heritage,” Riddle answered flippantly. “The Potters are, after all, one of the ancient pureblood families.”

____

Harrys mouth turned down. “Well then they should at least have the decency to respect my mother.”

____

Riddle made a noncommittal humming noise.

____

Suddenly, out the corner of his eye, Harry saw something white and flat flash in the near distance. Pausing, he scanned the lake. Nothing. Distracted, he started walking closer to the shore, straining to catch a glimpse of whatever it was he’d seen. He had to tread carefully as the lake was dangerous at this time - the sides were deep slopes, falling quickly. The sun had faded entirely from the sky by this point, leaving a sickly glow cast by the moon as the only light with which to see by.

____

“What is it?” Tom asked, eyes searching Harry’s face, noting the lack of a response.

____

“I thought I saw something. Over there… Look! There it is again!” Something emerged and resubmerged within the blink of an eye, closer this time.

____

Tom followed suit, eyes scanning the horizon. Silence. And then, out of the lake, right in front of them both, something erupted from the water’s surface, spider-like and vaguely shaped like a tall, lumpy man. 

____

Both boys scrabbled back, horrified, Tom’s foot slipping on the wet rock as he put his full body weight on it.

____

Harry watched as, almost as if in slow motion, Tom’s ankle wobbled, cracked, and fell backwards, the boy slipping into the water almost soundlessly. Harry’s heart felt like it stopped, thoughts of Tom lost down there in the inky blackness rushing to the forefront of his head and spurting adrenaline into his bloodstream.

____

“Tom!” Harry screamed, inching as close to the lake water as he possibly could.

____

The other boy struggled to the surface, white face even paler with the pain and lips almost immediately starting to tinge blue. Every kick he needed to stay afloat jostled his ankle further, but he gritted his teeth and started to swim back towards Harry. Panicking, Harry stretched out his arm as far as it could go, praying that Tom could reach - more than two minutes in that lake and the other boy would almost certainly freeze to death.

____

But he could only watch, petrified, as Tom neared the edge of the shore and a grey, claw-like hand with far too many fingers shot up out of the water and latched on to his wrist. Tom was eleven years old, for all he acted like an adult, and stared down in horror at the deep water beneath him. Immediately, he started thrashing, trying to tread water and grab onto the rocky shore, but within moments was dragged underneath the surface, cutting off the beginning of a scream.

____

Harry was frozen in shock for all of two seconds before he howled Tom’s name- 

____

- _and dived into the lake_. 

____

 

____

 

____

 

____

The water was like an icy blanket, dark and smothering. Harry frantically dove deeper, reaching out in front of him, desperately trying to grasp Tom’s robe. The air in his lungs was burning, he already couldn’t feel his feet or hands. The heating charm on his robe was useless when faced with the water soaking through it and grasping Harry’s heart with freezing claws. Harry felt the panic building and building, tears bursting from his eyes as he thrashed around. Tom was going to die. Tom was going to die and now he was going to die, and it was all his fault. Desperation washed over him, fueling the claustrophobia of the water surrounding him - whatever had dragged Tom down was still out there, probably floating towards him this very moment. His chest was on fire, he couldn’t breathe - _he couldn’t breathe_! 

____

Harry let out the air he’d been holding, sucking in water, his vision going white-

____

“ _Tom!_ ”

____

 

____

 

____

 

____

And then, all at once, Harry didn’t feel cold anymore. 

____

The water was lit up - he could see Tom, a limp, pale doll a few meters to his right. The _thing_ latching on to him emitted a foul shriek, echoing through the water, it’s bald white head recoiling from the light. For a moment, eight black eyes stared soullessly into Harry’s, before it released its grip on the other boy, and swam off into the black where the light couldn’t penetrate. Shaking, Harry looked down. The light was coming from his hands, a warm soft glow that spilled out, and surrounded Tom as well, slipping into his mouth and down his throat. 

____

Tom’s eyes opened, pupils growing huge as they flitted from Harry, to where both children were rising towards the surface of the lake, and then back in the direction the… thing had fled. 

____

Harry was starting to feel dizzy, like he’d stood up too quickly. His sight was going blurry, filled with white noise with fluorescent spots dancing in front of his eyes, as he felt his face and hands break the surface. One second he was underwater, staring at Tom, and the next both of them were coughing up their lungs in the frozen grass on the shore.

____

“Tom.” Harry tried to speak but his voice came out as barely a croak. He tried again but his lips were too numb to move and he couldn’t muster the energy to turn his head and see if the other boy was alright. He was coughing though - that had to be a good sign. Too exhausted to think, he couldn’t tell if his eyes were shut or the sky was just that black. 

____

Thankfully, Harry proceeded to pass out. 

____

 

____

 

____

 

____

Tom sat up, still panting, and crawled over to the other boy. If he was correct, Harry had just used wandless magic. Not to turn the page of a book, or lift a feather, like most people’s first time, but the _powerful_ kind. 

____

He’d saved Tom’s life. 

____

Tom stared down at Harry’s face, as pale as his own, dripping wet, with long black hair plastered to his scalp and beginning to freeze into tendrils. 

____

_Who was Harry Potter?_

____

The boy had spoken to Nagini - Tom had heard him, and then he’d only gone and performed the strongest wandless magic Tom had ever seen from another person. He hadn’t even had to speak the incantations.

____

Speaking of which: Tom lifted his own fingers and waved them towards himself, muttering “ _Callesco._ ”, then doing the same to Harry. All at once the younger boy’s face eased slightly; steam rose from his robes and the surface of his skin, as the water warmed and evaporated. Tom used two fingers to gently brush some of Harry’s hair back from where it had fallen into his closed eyes, the rest of his sleeping face flushed pink with the heat.

____

This boy was far too interesting to let go. 

____

Glancing at the stars beginning to blink into existence, he looked down at his ankle. It wasn’t badly broken. Fractured, maybe. 

____

“ _Episkey._ ” 

____

Tom waited for the bone to knit itself back together and got up, feeling surprisingly all right for someone who had come very close to drowning. 

____

Ah. It would seem he had spoken too soon. 

____

Gritting his teeth at the sudden wave of exhaustion from the two spells, he dragged the other boy’s limp body away from the shore and towards the beginning of the more landscaped parts of the gardens. Depositing him down in the middle of the path, where they were sure to be seen, Tom propped him up against a tree and settled in next to him. He tugged his robe down from where it had risen up, exposing the angry circular purple bruising from where the Cetus had clamped down on him. It wouldn’t do for anybody to know about this. 

____

Sighing, Tom studied Harry’s face some more. _He looked so... young_. He could hear Nagini returning, slithering through the frozen leaves towards him. He allowed her to crawl up his sleeve again, feeling her tongue flicking out to taste the bruises. She had a noticeable lump in her abdomen from the meal that was digesting in her stomach. 

____

“ _The bigger humans are coming this way._ ” She hissed, gently manoeuvring her body to miss the painful marks on his arm.

____

“ _I know._ ” Tom replied, letting Harry’s head loll onto his shoulder and closing his own eyes. Strangely, he didn’t mind the other boy’s weight, although the cold nose pressed into his neck was uncomfortable. The corners of his mouth turned up as he thought about how he could purge the lake later on in the week. Cetuses were horrid creatures anyway. Surely Fabian wouldn’t mind - he didn’t think the man had ever even visited his own lake. Too preoccupied with hosting these ridiculous dinners to increase his own social capital.

____

The voices coming from the direction of the manor were growing louder, now even audible to Tom. He made sure to steady his breathing, and relax more deeply into Harry’s limp body, cradling the other boys shoulders with his own. Strange to think that ten minutes ago, this child had saved him. _Him_. He looked so perfectly ordinary from the outside.

____

The footsteps stopped in front of them both.

____

“Oh darling look - how sweet they are. They must have exhausted themselves playing out here in the garden. ” With his eyes closed, Tom couldn’t be sure but he thought that was Harry’s mother. 

____

“It’s a good thing we found them - I was beginning to worry a little. The grounds aren’t safe at night.” 

____

_Understatement of the year_ , Tom thought angrily at whoever had said that.

____

“I’m so glad Tom has made a friend though, he’s usually very happy being by himself.” That was definitely his own mother. He heard the adults whisper their goodbyes to each other (they must have thanked and bid adieu to Fabian and his wife before coming to find them, Tom surmised), and was gently shaken awake by his fathers cold hand.

____

“Come on Tom, time to get going.” 

____

Tom slowly opened his eyes, feigning confusion. Next to him, jostled by the movement, Harry stirred and blinked, stiffening when he realised his proximity to the other boy. Tom carefully extracted himself and stood up. Head tilted in thoughtfulness, he extended his hand for Harry to shake, who did so blearily. 

____

“It was lovely to meet you Harry. Please do write - although I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other soon.”

____

Harry nodded, eyes barely opening. It was impressive that he’d even managed to wake up. Tom let an entirely honest smile rise to his face, dark eyes glinting, looking one last time at the sleepy, green-eyed ten year old, before turning away with his parents and apparating with a sharp crack.

____


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I've been blown away by the response to this - thank you to everyone that's commented, bookmarked and given kudos. I love reading your comments - they make writing this so much better! 
> 
> To clarify, Tom and Harry are still super young and there won't be any proper slash for at least another few years; just Tom's slowly darkening feelings of possession. But we will get there!
> 
> Anyway: I hope you enjoy the chapter.

“Harry! There’s a letter for you here!”

His father’s voice floated up the stairs; Harry smushed his cheek further into the pillow, groaning. Unfortunately, school had started again, and with it came a barrage of homework - he’d had to stay up late last night to finish his science report. Wearily, he struggled to sit up in bed and yawned. 

“Harry!”

“I’m coming now.” Harry shouted back, dragging himself up and trudging down the stairs to the kitchen. A snowy white owl blinked up at him from the counter top, before continuing to preen it’s feathers. Bright morning sunlight pouring in from the open windows made him cover his eyes for second, before looking around blearily for the letter. Chuckling, it was handed to him by his mother, who was sipping her coffee and cooking breakfast. As soon as the owl had witnessed Harry clasping its cargo, it hooted softly and launched itself out the window.

He grunted out a thanks and bounded back up the stairs, resettling crosslegged on his bed and staring down at the pristine white envelope. He suddenly felt a lot more awake. His name and address had been written in a perfect cursive script in vivid green ink, and Harry took a moment to admire it before tearing open the envelope. Unfolding the letter, he suddenly had a strong feeling that he knew exactly who had sent it.

Tom said he’d write, didn’t he? That day by the lake. He must have gotten Harry’s address from his parents, who were vague friends with his own. 

Harry absentmindedly traced the scar on his forehead - it was still inflamed, and tender to touch. When he’d dived into the lake after Tom, his glasses had shattered from the impact, and the ricochet of a small sliver of glass had left a hairline scar in the shape of a lightening bolt. He hadn’t even noticed it until he’d arrived home that night as it was covered underneath his thick mop of hair - he’d just thought headache was just part of the exhaustion. 

Every time he caught sight of it in the mirror he was reminded of the other boy. Harry wondered if Tom ever thought about him. Did his parents know about Nagini? He’d never heard of parseltongue before, and despite searching for well over a day in his family library, he hadn’t come across anything that referenced it. 

He smoothed open the heavy parchment, eyes greedily scanning the single page. 

_Dear Harry,_

_I hope you are well. I’m writing to offer my thanks for your help last week, and the part you played in saving my life. Rest assured - the problem we encountered in the lake has since been taken care of._

Harry frowned. Taken care of? How on earth would he have done that? Harry didn’t even know what that thing was!

Tom went on:

 _I would advise against mentioning the events of that evening to anybody, including, of course, our shared ‘skill’ - it is often looked upon with distrust and disgust, and may prematurely shape the opinions of some people, your parents included. If you are curious however, which I imagine you to be, I would suggest reading_ Salazar Slytherin: The Formative Years. __

_I look forward to your response._

_Best wishes,  
Tom_

Harry reread the letter, folded it back up, and then hid it under his pillow. He hadn’t told anybody the truth about what happened that night anyway. His parents had been concerned about the mark on his forehead and the disappearance of his glasses, but that had easily been explained away by Harry’s natural clumsiness leading to a slip on the grass, followed by a collision with a tree. They’d accepted it as the truth easily (Harry had been slightly offended). He’d still been chastised for running away from the dinner though, but that had been thankfully delayed until the next morning. 

When Harry had asked about Tom, his parents had been happy to answer his questions. Tom’s parents were Tom Riddle Senior, and Merope Riddle. Harry had been surprised to learn that Tom’s paternal grandparents had been muggles, and that his own family dynamic mimicked Harry’s - so why hadn’t he taken Harry’s side when he was complaining about Mrs. Goyle’s comments? 

The biggest surprise though, was that Tom (the lucky sod) didn’t go to school, and was instead taught by tutors at his family home. According to Harry’s mother, he was also apparently startlingly intelligent, which Harry didn’t struggle to believe. 

His parents seemed to like Tom’s well enough, and were subtly encouraging of Harry’s new friendship: “A friend would be good for him, Harry. Merope was saying that he tends to keep to himself, and doesn’t really socialise much with other children.” His mother said softly, stroking his hair. Harry had hummed in agreement.

Harry got up and went over to his desk, retrieving a sheet of paper and quill. He took his time with writing out a response, wanting to impress Tom with his best handwriting, before heading downstairs again. His father raised an eyebrow as he entered the room, triumphantly brandishing his letter. 

“Can I please use Arty to send this to Tom?” He asked, already heading over to where the Potter family owl was feeding. 

“Sure. It’s nice that you two are writing to each other.” James replied, watching Harry hand over the letter. 

 

 

 

 

 

Life after that didn’t really change. Harry was still forced to get up at (in his opinion) inhumane hours and attend his day school, and his time was taken over by homework and his friends. He still received the odd letter from Tom about once a month, who had taken to sending him over bits of parchment with scribbled ideas on, or cut outs from the Daily Prophets of articles which Tom had found particularly interesting. Harry returned the favour, sending him a few of his best drawings, and lamenting his school life in letter form. 

Over the next six months, Harry grew by at least an inch (of which he was very proud), and started to practise little bits of wandless magic, without alerting his parents. It was only small things, like lighting a match, or healing a tiny scrape he’d made whilst playing outside, but they still tired him out quickly nonetheless. He told Tom about it, who seemed delighted and would send him increasingly difficult spells for him to try out. 

Soon enough, Harry’s eleventh birthday rolled around. Of course he was excited to be turning eleven, but it was trumped by what had happened the morning of the previous day: his letter of acceptance into Hogwarts had arrived. Which of course meant that he’d be starting Hogwarts in just over one month - four weeks - with Tom. For his birthday, he received a lot of the things he’d be taking to Hogwarts, like a slightly presumptuous Gryffindor scarf from his father, and a few books from his mother. By far the best gift, though, was from Tom. It had arrived in a small box, around the size of a book, which is at first what Harry had thought it was. He’d scurried up to his bedroom to open it up, wanting to open it alone like he did with all of Tom’s letters. To his surprise, the box contained not a book, but a tiny, softly hissing green snake, who looked rather like a smaller version of Nagini. Harry gaped, and quickly read the card that came with it. Tom wished him a happy birthday, and explained that Nagini had found the egg herself, and Tom had waited for it to hatch before sending it to Harry. Thankfully it had, just in time for his birthday. She didn’t have a name - that was up to Harry to decide - and Harry could bring her to Hogwarts next month if he kept her hidden. 

“ _Hello there,_ ” Harry found himself hissing, heart beating furiously. “ _My name is Harry._ ”

“ _Greetings Harry._ ” The snake replied, uncoiling herself and rearing up, beady black eyes locked on his own. He would have been afraid, but the tiny thing was the size of a pencil and so instead he found her rather cute. 

“ _Er, I’ll call you er… Needle…if that’s alright with you?_ ” Harry said cautiously.

Needle looked considering for a moment, before dipping her head in acquiescence. “ _Needle… I like it._ ” She hissed out.

“ _Good. Um, Great. Needle it is._ ” Harry decided, letting her slither up his hand and wrap around a finger.

“ _I’m hungry._ ” Needle hissed petulantly, as soon as she was settled. For a second Harry wondered how on earth he was going to feed her, before remembering that he could probably steal a mouse or something from Arty, which would keep Needle full for at least a week. He got up, loosely placing the hand with Needle in it into his empty pocket. 

“ _Ok, let’s go and get you something to eat_.”

 

 

 

 

 

A week later, and Harry and Needle (in his pocket this time, which is where she had taken to lounging), were heading off to Diagon Alley with his parents, to pick up the rest of his school supplies. It was a bright, sunny day befitting early August, with a slight breeze and the ectopic smell of grass hanging loosely in the air. At first, Harry enjoyed hopping from shop to shop in search of all the obscure items he would need for his first year, but after a few hours it was getting tedious. He had relegated to trailing behind his parents as they fussed over hats and gloves with barely discernible differences. He let out a sigh, sticking a finger in his pocket for Needle to wrap around. 

“We’re almost done darling, just need to pick up your robes, and then try to find a copy of The Dark Forces in Flourish and Blotts. Oh, and get your wand.” His mother explained, glancing down at his glum expression with a smile. Harry sighed again in agreement, perking up marginally at the mention of a wand.

It took them another hour to get Harry’s newly tailored robes (for some reason, the shop was very busy on this particular day), and he spent the time talking with a supercilious blonde boy his own age, who at first came across as distinctly unpleasant but soon warmed up after Harry had let slip his last name. After bidding Draco goodbye and good luck (with regards to the robe fitting), Harry was praying to the gods that they would find the remaining book on his school check list quickly. It took a good five minutes of sweaty jostling to reach Flourish and Blotts as the crowd was dense and rather difficult to push through, especially for someone of Harry’s size. Finally though, they were there.

As his parents went off in search of the shop keeper, Harry decided to see if he could find the book on parseltongue that Tom had recommended. Trailing his fingers against the spines of the books, he rounded the corner and came face to face with none other than Tom himself. If he was surprised to see Harry, he didn't show it. 

“Harry. What a pleasant surprise.” Tom did look pleased to see him; a small smile was playing at the corners of his mouth. He snapped shut the book he had been holding, and slid it back into place on the shelf.

Harry’s mouth fell open at the sight of his friend, this time clad in a form-fitting green robe. It looked expensive, and the older boy wore it well.

“Tom! What are you doing here?”

Tom raised a dark eyebrow. “The same as you, I imagine.” He answered, looking pointedly at the books surrounding them. 

“Oh right.” Said Harry, and promptly remembered what was occupying his pocket. Glancing around furtively at the empty corridor, he withdrew Needle, who once again wrapped herself around his index fingers. 

“ _I wanted to thank you for her. It was the best present I’ve ever received._ ” Harry said meaningfully, trying to convey his gratitude via intense eye contact. 

Tom looked pleased again. “ _I’m glad. What did you name her?_ ” He asked, dark eyes flitting from the tiny snake to Harry’s grin.

“ _My name is Needle._ ” She answered, writhing and twisting through Harry’s fingers. Harry thought she was showing off a bit.

Tom stepped closer and reached out. “ _Needle… It is a good name for you, little one._ ” He hissed, stroking her head with the backs of his fingers. For some reason Harry blushed, running a hand through his hair and pushing it back off his forehead to cool his face down. 

Tom was standing quite close, and looked up at the movement. From this distance Harry could see the moment he saw the scar - Tom’s eyes immediately fixed on it, pupils dilating. For some reason, Harry felt the need to justify it.

“ _It’s from that night. When I dived into the lake my glasses shattered…_ ” He hurried to explain. “ _My parents didn’t see it until it was too late to heal properly._ ”

“ _Is that so?_ ” Tom murmured, giving it one last lingering glance before stepping backwards and looking over Harry’s shoulder. Harry heard his mother laughing, and quickly shoved Needle back into his pocket. 

Both of Harry’s parents along with Tom’s mother rounded the corner, talking to each other and laughing. 

“There you are - I see you’ve managed to find each other.” Tom’s mother said, beckoning them both over towards the adults with a wave of her hand. “I bumped into Harry’s parents here and it turns out that you both have yet to get your wands. We’ll go together.” She decided brightly, smiling at Tom and then turning to Harry. Tom’s mother was quite beautiful, he realised, with the same dark hair and eyes as Tom. She didn’t have his peculiar air of coldness though - instead the creases at the corner of her eyes made her look tired but kind. 

Harry’s mother beamed, probably happy that Harry would stop complaining now that he was accompanied by Tom. Harry shot her a suspicious look. At least they’d managed to find that elusive book, judging from the branded carrier bag in her hand. 

He and Tom looked at each other, and excitedly followed their parents out the shop, making their way to Ollivander’s. The boys walked side by side, tuning out the noise of Harry’s parents complaining about the crowds to Merope’s sympathetic ears. 

“I managed to complete that spell you sent me. You know, the levitating one. I tried it with a coin.” Harry whispered excitedly, swerving to miss a short young man who hurried past with a huff.

“How long did it take you?” Tom asked, turning to look at him interestedly. It was unfair - no one ever tried to walk into Tom.

Harry bit his lip. “Two weeks of trying,” he admitted, looking down at the cobbled street. “But then I figured out that I needed to time the hand gesture perfectly with what I was saying. After that it was easier.” He left out the fact that he’d been so exhausted after the first day, he’d slept for seventeen hours.

“Still… impressive, Harry. I wonder what you’ll be capable with using a wand.” Tom glanced at him, thoughtful.

Ducking to enter, they pushed open the door to Ollivander’s, the bell letting out a soft trill behind them. Harry’s voice died in his throat. He’d never been into the shop before, and was taken aback with the weird silence hanging in the air, which was definitely a few degrees colder than outside. As soon as they’d entered, the noise of the crowd faded away completely. Dust motes floated through the air, lit up by a shaft of light coming from the small window. Everything seemed too… still. Tom seemed to notice it as well, his blue eyes alert and pale face serious. Their parents stood near the counter, oblivious, chatting to a tired, somber man who must have been Ollivander himself. The older man fixed his eyes on Harry, and walked over to the boys, leading them around a shelf and away from the shop entrance.

“Tom Riddle.” He said, cold, silver eyes assessing, and frighteningly pale. Harry felt Tom stiffen next to him.

“Ollivander, I presume.” Tom replied, eyes narrowing slightly.

Ollivander nodded, his eyes briefly landing on Harry before switching his attention back to Tom.

“Seems only yesterday your mother and father were in here buying their first wands.” He abruptly turned away, and selected a thin, black box from the shelf behind, retrieving the wand within and handing it to Tom.

Tom, his pale face once more expressionless, clasped the wood, and, somehow already knowing what to do, gave it a short flick. A row of draws opened suddenly, the paper spilling out onto the floor. Harry jumped.

“Ah. Apparently not.” Sighed the wandmaker, putting the wand back in its box, and flicking his own wand to clear up the mess. He took out another box. 

It took four more wands and four more spilled shelves until Tom found his wand. He’d just taken hold of a bright, smooth brown one, when a dark, peculiar expression passed over his face, his eyes unblinking. Harry found it almost… scary. He shuddered and looked away. Ollivander went quiet too. Slowly, Tom pointed the wand at the pile of messy papers he’d created, and gave it a sudden swish. 

The papers burst into flames for a brief few seconds, fire licking the ceiling with a roar, before Tom flicked his wrist and they were gone as soon as they’d arrived. 

“Thirteen and a half inches, yew, with a phoenix feather core. An unusual combination.” The older man said softly, staring at Tom. Tom was smiling, baring his white teeth - the most expressive Harry had ever seen him - staring fixedly at the wand clasped in his hand. Tom’s mother broke the moment, striding over and laying a hand on his shoulder. 

“Well done! A beautiful wand, Tom.” She said, eyes crinkling.

With Tom satisfied, Ollivander turned his piercing eyes on Harry, who immediately felt apprehensive. 

“Mr. Potter.” The wandmaker looked considering. “We might just try…” He muttered to himself, turning away and rooting through a shelf of, in Harry’s opinion, identical looking boxes. Having found what he was looking for, he turned around and laid a lighter coloured, smaller wand on the table in front of Harry. 

Heart thudding in his chest, Harry adjusted his glasses, reached down… and picked it up. The satisfaction was immediate; the wand felt… right. It felt good in his hand. Without thinking, he waved it, and the charred pieces of paper that Tom had burnt to a crisp began to flatten out, edges growing until there was a perfect stack of paper lying on the floor, as if it had never been burnt.

“Eleven inches, holly, with a core of phoenix feather…if I’m not mistaken, from the same bird as young Mr. Riddle’s here. It woulds seem the two of you have brother wands.” Ollivander said quietly, looking strangely appalled.

Harry’s mouth fell open. Tom just looked thoughtful, although he had frozen in place, the grip on his own wand tightening.

“Brothers?” Harry echoed, eyes moving from his wand (he didn’t want to put it down just yet), to Tom’s, and back again. Across the shop floor, his parents could see he’d found his wand, and were looking at him like they wanted him to go over. 

“Yes... I suspected, of course, but to have it confirmed...” Ollivander murmured under his breath, trailing off in shock.

"Most unusual, Mr. Potter. Most unusual."

Harry felt _distinctly_ uncomfortable, and walked back towards his parents, who had by this point produced seven galleons and stacked them on the counter, beaming.

“I’ve got it.” He said, rather obviously, still in shock. His parents exchanged obliviously proud glances with each other over the top of his head. 

“We know. On what looked like the first try as well! That old beggar hasn’t changed a bit - still without a doubt the best wandmaker I’ve ever seen.” His father chuckled.

Harry smiled weakly back.

Tom’s mother walked over with Tom in tow, a frown distorting her face. “Very odd. Very odd indeed.” She said, staring down at Harry’s wand which was still clenched tightly in his fist. 

“Odd?” Enquired Harry’s father politely. 

“Tom and Harry… These boys - their wands share a core of phoenix feather, plucked from the same bird.” She said distantly, her dark eyes wide and frightened. His parents looked as confused as Harry felt.

"Brother wands." Tom supplied, helpfully.

“What on earth...” Said Harry’s mother, looking between the two boys, who were both still looking down at their respective wands. “I've never heard of this happening before.”

Harry's father looked equally amazed. "What do you think it means? It can't just be a coincidence, right?"

By this point, Ollivander had finished putting his papers in order and drifted over, fine papery hands smoothing over every box he passed, as if in reassurance.

Harry put his hand in his pocket again, to feel the comforting constriction of Needle around his thumb. Tom looked up at him sharply, which Harry felt slightly insulted by - he’d kept her a secret thus far, it wasn’t like he was going to screw it up now. 

His parents voiced their disbelief for a good five or so minutes, Ollivander countering with vague, supposedly profound, statements - which Harry was quickly coming to expect from the elderly wandmaker. Eventually, citing the time, Tom’s mother paid Ollivander and left, along with Harry and his parents. Ollivander watched them go from the stooping doorway of the shop. Tom and Harry only had time for a brief goodbye, as Tom’s mother had another engagement. Harry pulled Tom into a hug, who stiffened at first and then slowly relaxed before stepping back and apparating away.

 

 

 

 

 

The day had finally arrived: Harry Potter was going to Hogwarts. He was currently waiting on the busy platform, saying his final goodbyes to his parents who were both a little teary eyed. He was excited to go, but hadn’t expected the sudden wave of panic that crashed over him as his parents pushed him towards the train doors. He wasn’t going to see them for another three months. What if something happened to them? He knew it was stupid, but couldn’t stop thinking it anyway. Harry clutched his mother’s fingers desperately, and felt her gently kiss his scar. 

“Come on darling, time to go. You don’t want to miss the train do you?” She said kindly.

“Tom’s waiting for you, remember?” His father added.

Harry took a deep breath, then let go and jumped through the train doors just in time. A minute later, the train let out a shriek, and started to slowly withdraw from the platform. He could see his mother and father waving at him, and stared after them as the train pulled out of the station and started to pick up speed. Closing his eyes, he clenched his fists and took another deep breath, comforted by the weight of Needle in his pocket. Time to find Tom. 

Unsurprisingly, it didn’t take long. He walked down the train, peering into carriages and trying to keep his balance as the floor moved beneath his feet. A glimpse of back hair made him pause, peering into the occupied carriage. Was that Tom? The boy turned around and- no that was most definitely not Tom. He was pudgy, with freckles and a long, black greasy fringe, and smiled up at Harry, who managed to keep his recoiling to a minimum. 

“Hello, I’m Neville. Want to sit down?” The other boy beamed in a Northern accent. There was a bushy haired girl sitting next to him, who quickly rolled her eyes and reburied her nose in her book.

“Er, no. I’m all right thanks.” Harry shut the door hurriedly, and walked on. Doubt was starting to soak through his thoughts - what if Tom had missed the train? He shook his head. Tom wouldn’t miss the train. He walked on, shouldering past people stowing their trunks away, looking for a pale face with perfectly coiffed black hair. 

Just as he stepped across the threshold of another carriage, feeling rather neglected, someone grabbed his arm, hard. Harry startled and was pulled through an open door with surprising strength. 

“Hey!” He shouted, trying to wrest his arm back from his mysterious assailant. 

“Calm down Harry, it’s me.” Tom hissed, slamming the door closed behind them and locking it shut. 

“Oh.” Said Harry, feeling quietly embarrassed. 

Tom snorted. “Did you think someone was trying to kidnap you on the train to Hogwarts?” 

Harry could feel his cheeks heating up, and readjusted his glasses, deciding not to dignify that question with a response. He sat down opposite Tom, dumping his bag on the seat next to him. 

“I’ve been looking for you for ages.” Harry said accusingly, as Needle popped her head out of his pocket and slithered over to Tom. Tom simply smiled at the younger boy, and set the snake down gently on the adjacent seat where Nagini was lightly dozing. The bigger snake allowed Needle to coil up around her, flicking her tongue out lazily. 

“ _Hello little one._ ” She hissed, entertwining their tails. Tom looked quite proud.

“ _Nagini!_ ” Harry didn’t think he’d ever heard Needle sound so excited. He knew she missed Nagini, who was like a - mother? older sister? - to the younger snake, as she would often talk about her to Harry. 

Harry left the snakes to catch up, ignoring their soft hisses. “How did you manage to get a compartment by yourself? It’s crammed out there.” He asked, and then immediately thought of Tom’s frosty glare and realised why it was empty.

Tom smirked at him. “I simply told those who enquired that this carriage was unfortunately occupied.” He said sweetly. Harry didn’t believe it one bit.

“Whatever,” Harry said. He absentmindedly rubbed his scar, and let the easy silence rest for a moment, before asking: “What house do you think you’ll be sorted into?”

“I can’t image anything other than Slytherin.” Tom said confidently, straightening out his robes as he settled further back into his seat, back, as always, ramrod straight. Harry nodded - he couldn’t either - it fit Tom’s personality to a tee.

“And yourself?”

“Well… both of my parents were Gryffindor. So I think probably Gryffindor.” Harry thought of the gold-and-red scarf he’d received for his birthday and how excited his parents had been when he received his letter.

Tom frowned. “I would have thought it most likely for you to be sorted into Slytherin, due to your ability to speak parseltongue.”

Harry looked down at his feet. For some reason he hadn’t thought about that - for the whole of his life, his father had regaled him with stories of Gryffindor bravery. Both of his parents were Gryffindor - he’d just naturally assumed he would be too. 

“I guess we’ll have to see.” He said uneasily, and looked out the window at the countryside speeding past. “As long as it’s not Hufflepuff, I think I’ll be OK.” He joked.

“Quite so.”

 

 

 

 

 

Tom was sorted into Slytherin, just like Harry knew he would be. Even though Tom kept his face neutral, Harry could see the faintest edges of a smile at the corner of his eyes. Harry was pleased for him - he got what he wanted, after all. The smile dimmed a little at the half-hearted applause as Tom took his seat at the Slytherin table. They must have recognised Riddle as a muggle name, Harry realised, despite Tom’s mother being from the famous Gaunt family. He glared at them from where he was seated. How dare they? 

Tom turned to face the rest of the first years, starting at Harry, who stared back. It took another excruciating ten minutes of sorting before Harry finally heard his name. Biting his lip raw, he stood up and made his way over to the battered old hat, uncomfortable with the number of eyes trained so intently on him. He took a deep breath, and pulled it on over his head. It was surprisingly heavy, and actually so large that it slipped down, covering his eyes and blocking out the view of the hall. 

_Ah. Mr. Potter_ , it hummed. _Hmm, difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. There's talent, oh yes. And a thirst to prove yourself. Not a bad mind, either - Ravenclaw would suit you well._

 _Not Ravenclaw, not Ravenclaw!_ Harry desperately thought at it.

_No? All right then, that won’t do. How about Gryffindor? You’re brave, especially when it comes to those you count as friends._

Harry thought about diving into that lake after Tom, which had been rather reckless, really. _Yes, Gryffindor! Gryffindor would be great, please!_ He thought.

The hat hummed again. _But it’s not quite that easy, is it? What’s that I see here… Parselmouth? That little snake in your pocket….Well that would most definitely befit a Slytherin, wouldn’t it?_

 _No,_ Harry thought, _no it would not._ He adjusted the rim of the hat so he could just about see, feeling slightly queasy as the soft leather under his fingers moved without warning.

 _Not Slytherin, eh? Are you sure?_ The hat enquired. _You could be great, you know. It's all here in your head. And Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, there's no doubt about that. No?_

Tom was still staring at him from the Slytherin table across the hall, black eyes standing out starkly in his pale face. Probably wondering why it was taking him so long.

 _Oh sod it_ , thought Harry, thinking of Tom. _Go on then._

“SLYTHERIN!”


	3. Three

It was only because Harry was staring directly at Tom the moment the hat had spoken, that he caught the look of vague satisfaction that spread across the other boy’s face, and the way he relaxed back into his chair slightly, almost as if relieved. Harry grinned back at him, as one of the professors tugged the old hat from his head and congratulated him, shaking his hand. A few of the teachers seemed confused - probably, Harry theorised, due to the notoriety of his parents as Gryffindors. Maybe some of them had been at school with them, and were surprised to see the child of such well-known Gryffindor paragons turn out to belong to the rival house. From the head of the table, the man who had been introduced as Professor Dumbledore was staring at him with bright blue eyes, face unreadable. Harry made his way over to the Slytherin table, the cheerful applause slowly fading as he sat down next to Tom.

Tom smiled and offered his hand to shake. “Congratulations, Harry. I’m pleased you’ve decided on Slytherin.”

Harry took hold of Tom’s hand and shook it, surprised at the warmth of his palm. It was still a bit surreal; the green and silver embroidery on the table cloth glinted pointedly at him.

“Thanks. What makes you say ‘decided’?” Harry asked curiously as he looked up down the length of the table, trying to figure out what on earth he’d just let himself in for.

“Simply the amount of time you spent under the hat. Quite a bit longer than anyone else so far.” Tom responded, following Harry’s gaze to rest on the group of second years further down the table. Tom’s dark eyes narrowed - they were rather obviously glaring at Tom, whispering and laughing behind their hands as he glanced at them. 

“Yeah, I guess I did…” Harry's voice trailed off as he realised what was happening. “Why are they staring at you?” He asked quietly, turning to look at dark-haired boy and flinching slightly at the look in his eyes.

“I suspect it has something to do with my last name.” Tom bit out, reaching out and taking a sip of his water. The warmth of the Slytherin welcome had definitely dulled in Harry’s mind. That explained why the applause as Tom was sorted into Slytherin had been muted at best. Harry's frustration was mounting - he was bitterly incredulous that people his own age could be so easily ignorant as to judge somebody on a name - on who their parents were. He tried to inject as much fury and poison into his glare as he could, fixing his eyes on the chubby blonde boy at the centre of the giggling group. The high pitched chuckles seemed to increase in volume as he noticed Harry. Next to him, Tom grabbed his forearm gently, as if in warning.

Just before he could say something, rather loudly and rather angrily, he caught a flash of movement out the corner of his eye; someone sat down in the free seat adjacent to him. Harry turned to look: it was the boy from the robe shop in Diagon Alley - Draco Malfoy. He must have missed the other boy’s name being called out, while he’d been too busy glaring. 

“Potter. Good to see you here.” Draco announced cheerfully, pouring a dark liquid into an ostentatiously gold trimmed glass, and generally radiating contentment. _Oh yeah_ , Harry realised, like Tom the other boy had also been set on entering Slytherin. Admittedly, he did look the part too - slicked back icy white hair and the kind of smug smile that Harry imagined was pasted on aristocratic pureblood children at birth. Somehow it was slightly more bearable on Draco. Harry found himself cheering up - he felt a bit better about the whole Slytherin thing, knowing at least two people in his house already.

“Draco! Congratulations on Slytherin - your father will be pleased.” Harry smiled and made sure to shake his hand like Tom had done for him. Draco looked pleasantly surprised at Harry's good manners. 

“Thank you. I’m sure he will be. Well done on Slytherin too - I must say, I had you all but certainly pegged for Gryffindor.” So did Harry. His smile dimmed a little. 

“Yeah, as did I.” Harry replied, suddenly realising Tom still had his hand curled protectively around his forearm. He turned back to look at the other boy, who immediately retrieved his hand. He seemed to have pulled all his shields back up, as the terrifying expression from earlier had been replaced by a look of dull boredom.

“Oh yeah, Draco this is my friend Tom. Tom: Draco.” Both boys shook hands, and said their respective hellos perfectly cordially. He didn’t know why but Harry had the feeling that Tom had very quickly decided not to like Draco. It was obvious in his painfully well-mannered small talk. Maybe it was Draco's overt self-confidence? Harry wasn’t sure but he found he did want them to get along... he was actually surprised they hadn’t met before, at the kind of dinner where Harry first met Tom.

He was distracted from his peace-keeping efforts by the sudden scrape of a chair as Professor Dumbledore rose to his feet, swathes of white beard floating down to his chest from where they’d risen up. The old man had an excited tilt to his lips, as he surveyed the students sitting down at their respective house tables. The sorting had already been completed, Harry realised. 

“The very best of evenings to you!” Dumbledore began, deep voice ringing out throughout the Great Hall. Harry fidgeted in excitement. Hopefully this meant the Start-of-Term Feast was about to start - he was starving. The older wizard welcomed both new and returning students to Hogwarts, and said some more stuff, but Harry had stopped paying attention as soon as the candles started to flicker to life. Eventually, Dumbledore clapped his hands together to signal the end of his welcome speech, and almost instantaneously a vast array of steaming food materialised on the tables. All at once, the silence hanging over the room was broken by a thousand young voices rising up in clamouring excitement at what lay before them. Harry grinned, helping himself to some chicken and then offering the dish to Tom, who was still looking bored and not at all enthusiastic at the feast. 

 

 

 

 

 

A couple of hours later, and Harry was feeling the fullest he’d ever felt. The food had all been gobbled up, and group by group they were being led away by a house prefect to their new rooms. His thoughts were swirling in a kind of dozy contentment, bought on by the food, warmth and the comfort of having Tom a quiet shadow by his side. As they exited the Great Hall, Harry paused to give one last backwards look at the thousands of candles hovering midair like static fireflies. It was beautiful - exactly like his Mother has said it would be.

The moving stairs simultaneously fascinated and terrified Harry in equal amounts. He was ninety-nine percent sure he would never ever be able to navigate them on his own - he’d probably have to miss all of his classes and live a solitary life in his dorm room. Tom huffed and rolled his eyes when Harry explained this to him, quickly striding over to an adjoining staircase with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times. It just wasn’t fair, Harry thought, that he’d managed to befriend such a competent person. Annoyingly, Draco also seemed to pick it up faster than Harry did (much to his secret disapproval).

They were led, past the portrait (not The Fat Lady which his Father had talked about so animatedly, Harry remembered forlornly), to the Slytherin common room, which was every bit as opulent as he’d imagined. A roaring fireplace spat out green flames - a little dramatic for the mild September weather - which almost touched the bottom of a splendidly huge portrait of Salazar Slytherin himself. The room was vast and circular, decorated at odd intervals with grand green armchairs and dark wooden tables which shined almost obsequiously. Green lanterns gave the place an eery feel, casting a soft sea-like wash over the room. Harry found himself walking a little closer to Tom than he would otherwise, but if he noticed the other boy didn’t give any indication.

As the excited first years clustered in the middle of the room, a dark-haired prefect began to read out the rooms. Most first years would share their room with one other person, he explained in a deep monotone, and this was non-negotiable. 

“What are the chances of us getting put together?” Harry whispered rhetorically, feeling quite glum. Tom glanced down at him, giving him a brief smile, but didn’t say anything. Harry felt a bit sad that the other boy obviously didn’t really mind, but decided to let it go - Tom wasn’t one to show his emotions easily. Sure enough, his name was called out in conjunction with a boy called _Oliver Knox_ , and Harry wandered away, leaving Tom with an appropriately sad and bereft smile. 

Both boys walked up the small set of stairs to their room, which apparently already housed their trunks. Like the common room, their room was decorated very tastefully, with two large four poster beds at either ends, resplendent in an intricate patchwork of Slytherin colours. Two desks were also placed at opposite sides of the room, with a large window in the middle looking out into the forest far below. Oliver sat down on the bed on the right with a sigh, testing the thickness of the mattress with spread palms and bouncing gently up and down. 

“So _Harry_ , I suppose we’re to be room mates.” He said, looking curiously up at Harry. His voice was almost as deep as Tom's, and each word was drawled out rather lazily. He seemed nice enough. Harry nodded, forcing a bright smile onto his face and sitting down on the other bed, facing Oliver.

“Yep. For the next year at least.” He smiled nervously, not quite knowing what to do with himself.

Oliver nodded, looking out the window at the view; Harry took the opportunity to study his new room mate. Oliver had curly, light brown hair which just brushed his shoulders, and almond shaped eyes which gave him a rather fox-like appearance. He did look familiar, but Harry couldn’t place it. The other boy obviously wasn’t much of a talker, which was ok as it meant Harry didn’t feel obliged to make awkward small talk. Oliver turned back around.

“You can call me Ollie.” He mentioned with an easy grin, standing up and strolling over to his trunk with the obvious intention to unpack. "Ok. Ollie it is." Harry said, deciding to follow suit. He was interrupted by a sharp knock at their door - he looked at Oliver, who looked just as confused as he did. Before he could say anything, the heavy door swung open with a well-oiled hiss and Tom stepped inside.

The tall boy had his usual masked smile plastered on his face, but his eyes were alert as they flashed to Harry and then Oliver. 

“Tom!” Harry blurted out with genuine surprise, “What are you doing here?” 

Oliver looked equally confused. Tom turned to him, head tilted slightly to the side.

“I’m afraid there was a mix up with the rooms. As it turns out, Harry is my roommate.” Tom looked a vision of contrite apology, and again gave a small, polite smile. Oliver looked at Harry, thick eyebrows furrowed, and rose from where he was crouched above his trunk.

“Oh.” He frowned again, looking down at his trunk and back up at Tom, who noticed the direction of his gaze.

“The trunks were mixed up too, I'm afraid, but we can resolve that rather easily.” Behind his back, just visible to Harry, Tom's slid his wand into his hand, and contorted it in a strange gesture. For a moment, nothing happened, and then Oliver's eyes seemed to glaze over a little. His shoulders sagged, and he took a few steps forward. Tom's smile didn't waver. 

“Yes. Yes, I suppose that’s quite all right.” He murmured dreamily, suddenly extremely agreeable, closing the lid of his unpacked trunk, and making his way to the door. He shook Harry’s hand and turned to Tom. “Which room did they say I was moving into again?”

“Twenty two.” The other boy replied, holding the door open and standing aside. As soon as he had ushered Oliver out, he withdrew his wand from a fold in his robe, and murmured something under his breath. The trunk at the foot of the bed seemed to flicker momentarily, casually blinking in and out again and returning a different size and wood. Harry sat down on his bed again, obviously elated that Tom was his roommate but not believing for one second that there had been a 'mix up in rooms'. He’d seen the other boy do something. Quite what, he wasn’t sure - but that strange wand gesture had definitely had something to do with it. 

Tom seemed oblivious, kneeling down and popping the lid on the new trunk, which was obviously his. Gracefully, he moved a few things out the way before retrieving a box, much like the one Harry had received for his birthday. With another flick of his wand, the box expanded in size with a pop, and opened to reveal a smooth green snake, seemingly slumbering. Nagini, Harry realised. 

“ _Hello, dear one. Shall I let you sleep some more?_ ” Tom crooned, stroking her scales with probably the most genuine affection Harry had seen. Nagini let out a sleepy little hiss, reshuffled her coils, and apparently resumed her sleep. Seeing the snake, abruptly Harry remembered his own. On Tom’s advice, he’d done much the same with Needle to sneak her into the castle. For some reason, Hogwarts had no problem with owls, cats, or even rats being allowed as pets, but had immediately vetoed snakes (an odd prejudice, in Harry's opinion). As a result, Harry had fed Needle a rather large rat, and left her to doze in her locked box in his trunk. He didn’t want to extract her and introduce her to the new environment just yet, so he decided to leave her in there for another few hours. She’d be sleepily digesting her meal, so probably wouldn’t mind.

“How on earth did you manage to swap rooms so quickly?” Harry asked as Tom re-shrunk the box and slid it into an empty draw in his desk. The robes looked good on him, Harry realised - the silver and green embroidery nicely accentuated the dark flecks in his blue eyes, and complimented his skin tone. They also wrapped around his figure, lengthening his legs and broadening his shoulders - no wonder he'd attracted a lot of attention. Perhaps not all of it was due to his last name… Harry was instantly annoyed again - the cons of having an over-achiever as a best friend. _Wait - was Tom his best friend?_ Probably, Harry decided. 

Tom had that playful smirk which tended to precede a half answer - Harry had developed a kind of pavlovian response to it, and already knew he was going to be frustrated with the answer.

“Charles,” Tom stated. Harry looked pointedly confused.

“The prefect who collected us from the Great Hall.” Riddle supplied. “He didn’t take a lot of convincing, and was quite happy to reassign Oliver.” Tom walked over to the heavy, embroidered curtains, drawing them half closed with a tug. His footsteps were silent, muffled by the thick pile of the carpet.

“Right.” Harry drew the answer out, making sure the other boy knew he wasn’t buying it. One day Tom would explain the methods he used to manipulate others into giving him what he wanted - Harry would just have to earn his trust.

 

 

 

 

 

It must have been around two o’clock in the morning; the moonlight was spilling out through a gap in the curtains, drawing Harry’s eyes with an inescapable tug. After the constant noise of the evening, the silence hung heavy in the air, fractured occasionally by Tom shifting under the covers. After the unpacking had been finished, they’d both fallen into bed rather quickly, exhausted from an evening of discovery. But now that Harry was alone with his thoughts, he’d started to wonder what the Gryffindor dorm rooms would have been like. Whether he’d have been friends with his room mate, if they would still be awake talking excitedly about which lessons they had tomorrow, or still getting to know one another. He thought about what his parents were going to say when he told them. Harry swallowed around a suddenly dry throat, blinking away tears. What if he’d made a mistake? He wasn’t cunning, or really that interested in navigating his way to the top of the bizarrely confusing social ladder of Slytherin. He didn’t belong here - he didn’t even know where his ability to speak parseltongue had come from. Longingly, Harry thought of Needles slippery comfort, the teasing flickers of her tongue on his thumb. Why hadn’t he unpacked her earlier? He could feel a burning in his eyes, and desperately willed it to go away.

“Harry? What’s wrong?” Tom’s voice cut through the quiet stillness, followed by sounds of the other boy propping himself up in bed. Harry froze, surreptitiously trying to clear his throat so he wouldn’t sound like he’d been on the verge of tears. Had he woken Tom up with his sniffling?

“Nothing.” He croaked, feeling his face heat, clenching his fists in the sheets.

“Harry.” The other boy chided softly. This was mortifying. He couldn’t tell Tom that he was doubting his choice earlier - he wouldn’t understand and probably just think Harry was being childish. Harry _was_ being childish.

“Harry.” Tom’s voice repeating his name startled Harry out of his spiral of panic. “You’ll feel better if we discuss it.” 

Harry could feel his resolve breaking. 

“It’s about being sorted into Slytherin, isn’t it?” The other boy prompted. Harry’s heart thudded in his chest. Tom simply patted the empty bed next to him and waited patiently. It took about thirty seconds for Harry to deliberate, but eventually he slipped out of his own bed, crossing the room quickly to slide under Tom’s duvet, gaze firmly rooted away from the other’s half-illuminated face. 

“Tell me about it.” The older boy sounded a little deeper, voice rough from sleep, and turned to face Harry, who sighed. 

“My whole life, I was always bought up with Dad’s adventures, the heroic and brave Gryffindor taking on Slytherin and winning against all odds. He used to talk about it all the time, and Mum would join in. They were so excited for me to come to Hogwarts,” Harry had to swallow the lump in his throat. 

“T-they even bought me this stupid Gryffindor scarf for my birthday. And now I’ve gone and ruined that for them.” 

The older boy sat patiently and waited for the Harry to continue. At last, Harry turned and met Tom’s eyes. 

“What if they hate me?” He asked quietly. 

Tom was a little taken aback with the vulnerability the other boy was displaying. It was… strange. He was almost _savouring_ the trust the other boy was placing in him, by confessing how he felt. It was a heady power, knowing he could crush Harry’s emotions with a simple validation of Harry’s worries… or he could completely switch out how the other boy felt. Tom tried to work out why he was edging towards the latter, even thought the former was likely to be much more fun. It was an incongruous feeling, almost like Tom wanted to protect Harry, even against his own parents and his own feelings. He would have to tread delicately. 

“Listen to me, Harry.” He said with just the right amount of conviction, “They won’t hate you for choosing Slytherin, if you can even call it a choice. You are their son - they will love you and respect you for the individual you are. Nobody expects you to be a carbon copy of your parents; it’s common knowledge that genetics certainly doesn’t allow for that.” Harry was looking up at him with so much devotion - it made Tom acutely aware of the blood rushing through his veins. He continued.

“You cannot blame them for wanting to you to experience what they did during their time at Hogwarts, a large part of which was formed by the house they were sorted in to.” He whispered, watching as the other boy sank deeper into his pillows, the relief apparent in the sudden slump in his shoulders. 

“Thanks Tom.” Harry murmured, half into the pillow cupping his face. 

“No thanks necessary.” Tom replied instinctively, watching in fascination as the other boy’s eyelids started to droop. Before long, Harry’s breaths were coming slow and even, and he relaxed completely into the mattress, shoulders brushing the other boy’s. Tom stared down at his face, not knowing what to do, but for some reason unwilling to wake him.

He mentally sighed, grabbing his wand on the bedroom table and locking the doors to their room. Upon further consideration, he also mouthed a handy little charm he’d discovered, pairing it with a flick of his wand, which prevented any form of eavesdropping beyond the walls of the room and ensuring nobody would be able to see or hear anything which went on inside. Harry’s steady breathing relaxed Tom’s mind, lulling him into a light thoughtfulness. Tom’s thoughts lingered on Harry: his ability to use wandless magic, though unusual, could potentially be explained by his parents - both notably strong and talented with their wands. But the parseltongue? He’d researched for days after his first meeting with the other boy, but found not a trace of anything unusual in his family tree. It just did not make sense - according to all the history Tom had been able to find, there was just no reason for Harry Potter to be a parselmouth.

Harry shifted in his sleep, burrowing deeper under Tom’s covers. The other boy thought for a moment, before stretching out his wand and wordlessly summoning a small, black box from his trunk, about the length of his thumb. The box was lacquered and engraved in a strange gold pattern, throwing out glints of light on the walls. Mindful not to disturb Harry next to him, Tom dug a sharp canine into the pad of his finger until a single bead of blood welled up, a tiny black jewel in the dim light. Taking a deep breath, he smeared it over the top of the box, which immediately flipped open with a small groan. The younger boy slept on. Inside the box, what looked to be a thick, grey worm started to wake up and squirm. It was tiny, with a small feeder piece at one end, and composed of numerous segments which clicked together as it moved. 

Carefully, Tom pinched the worm between forefinger and thumb, making sure not to touch the end, and with his other hand, gently brushed Harry’s hair away, exposing his neck. As soon as the feeder part of the wriggling worm made contact with Harry’s pale skin, it jolted, and began to burrow in. Tom watched in a kind of morbid fascination as the creature disappeared, a small movement beneath the unbroken skin on Harry’s neck the only proof of it ever existing. 

Harry shifted in his sleep, letting out a little huff of pain. Silently, Tom smoothed the hair back from his damp brow before gently rubbing the spot on the younger boy's neck where the worm had entered. Harry's furrowed brow began to smoothen out, and he curled closer to Tom. Tom made an L-shaped gesture with his wand, and what looked like a small map flickered into existence in the air in front of him, clearly showing that Harry was in this room. Although the worm's primary purpose was for eating up the excess of the considerable magical power that the other boy contained, and keeping him at a more normal magical level, a simple tracking spell tacked on to it's body also enabled Tom to know where the other boy was at all times. He’d now be able to keep an eye on him whenever they were separated, Tom thought proudly.

Tom disposed of the box, and shuffled down in his bed. At least now the other boy wouldn't attract as much attention - if those at the top of the school realised just how much magical energy he had... they might take him away from Tom. Which was completely unacceptable, of course. 

The green eyed child shifted closer, his face peaceful in sleep. Tom didn’t mind the warm weight of Harry next to him, and his soft breaths were almost mediative. Tom found himself subconsciously copying them: breathe in, breathe out. Eventually, the sound of Harry’s breathing lulled him into a kind of light doze, and Tom fell asleep curled around Harry’s back, smiling with the knowledge that Harry could never run from him. He would keep him safe.

 

 

 

 

 

Harry was desperately trying to focus on what Professor Snape was saying. He felt a little hot and achy though, and his neck had been cramping all morning. It was probably from… every time he thought about where he’d found himself when he woke up, another wave of embarrassment crashed over him. Tom had obviously been too polite to wake him up and move him back to his own bed - instead he’d just gone and fallen asleep in the older boy’s bed. What if he’d snored? Harry groaned under his breath, shook his head and tried to concentrate on the lesson. He snuck a glance to his right: Tom was the perfect picture of studious interest, black eyes flitting between his textbook and the pacing Professor at the front of the room. Slowly, Tom turned his head to meet Harry’s stare, and winked. Harry whipped his head back down, heart beating furiously.

“Mr. Potter.” Snake drawled, causing everyone in the room to turn to face Harry. “Is this potions class not interesting enough for you?”

“N-No, Sir. I mean, yes it is interesting.” Harry stammered out.

“Well in that case, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind telling me the last ingredient for the Draught of Living Death?”

Harry desperately scanned the page his textbook was open on, trying to find any words related to the potions name. It probably wasn’t even the right page - he’d been distracted for at least the last twenty minutes. 

“Sir, it’s wormwood.” A voice piped up from the desk behind Harry. A wave of relief made him turn to face the young girl who’d spoken, trying to convey his thanks with a small smile. Her brown bushy hair and delicate features looked strangely familiar - if he remembered correctly, she was the girl from the train. Well, whoever she was, he was thankful. For some reason, a red-headed boy sitting next to her was glaring at Harry, but Harry dismissed him. Weasleys, he thought with a sigh, were almost pathological in their dislike for Slytherins. It was odd being on the receiving end of a prejudice he’d also been willing to propagate at one point.

“Yes, quite right Miss…?”

“Granger.” The girl supplied with a triumphant grin. Harry had heard enough about Snape to know what was coming next. 

“Minus five points from Gryffindor, for Miss Granger’s rude interruption.” Snape bit out, eyes flickering to Harry and then to Tom. It must be weird for him, Harry released, to have his nemesis’ prodigy in his own house. There was a general groan from the Gryffindors in the room, and Granger shrank back in her seat. Snape cut off any argument by continuing the lesson, and Harry made a conscientious effort to listen to what he was saying. It actually _was_ interesting, he realised. Tom had introduced him to the topic this morning, telling him about how Draught of Living Death could be used as a cure for deadly nightshade. Potions class seemed so much more relevant when you knew that one day you might need one to save your life.

Very soon, the lesson was over, and everyone stood up at once, hastily clearing away their desks - nobody wanted to linger and be verbally cut down by Snape. A group of people by the back of the classroom, Slytherin by the looks of them, seemed to have congregated around a single desk, belonging to the dark-haired boy Harry had almost mistaken for Tom on the train to Hogwarts. Neville, Harry remembered. He was called Neville. The boy in question was frantically trying to pick his things up off the floor, but every time he put something back on his desk, one of the boys would just knock something else off. It was quite petty, in Harry’s opinion. His eyes found Tom, who was waiting for him by the door. Tom seemed to be watching the scene with a considering tilt to his head, almost like he was slotting the information away for later use. 

With a backwards glance at Snape, who was of course ignoring the blatant bullying playing out, Harry rushed over to the door. He wanted to help Neville, but he was limited in what he could do - well, what he was prepared to do. In Slytherin, a different kind of game was played, and there as no point making enemies for a stranger he didn’t know, as much as Harry’s moral compass was protesting this. As reached the group of boys, he gave Neville a small, supportive smile, and pretended to stagger slightly, pushing one of the boys away from where he was about to knock off Neville’s cauldron. 

“Watch it.” The boy barked, but seemed content to ignore what seemed like an innocent mistake from someone in his own house. Harry thought his name was Henry Stikes, as he’d been sorted a couple of people before Harry. He had quite distinctive long blonde hair, which he tied back - rather like Draco’s father. He came from a long line of witches and wizards, and therefore was treated with a certain degree of respect in Slytherin. Harry nodded in apology, and slipped past them to Tom. Unfortunately, this drew their attention to the other boy. 

“You’re friends with this half-blood?” Stikes scoffed, gesturing with a pudgy finger to Tom who was pointedly ignoring them all. Harry bit down on his lip, freezing in place, and watched out the corner of his eye as Snape was beckoned out of the room by another Professor.

“So what if I am?” He asked, meeting the other boy’s eyes in a glare. While he was willing to accept it wasn’t worth going out on a limb for some random boy that he didn’t know, it was quite a different story when it came to Tom. 

Stikes’ eyes narrowed dangerously; he obviously hadn’t been expecting such a vehement response. 

“I would chose your friends a little more wisely, Potter. You don’t want to be dragged down by the likes of him.” 

“Shut _up_. I would much rather be ‘dragged down’ by Tom than have to put up with your company for any length of time.” A part of Harry was screaming at him to apologise and take back the words he’d just blurted out, but his anger easily pushed it down. He was unbelievably fed up of the prejudice Tom had faced since he arrived - simply because his family chose to take his father’s name. Harry was a ‘half-blood’, exactly like Tom, but he’d been largely ignored as his last name was an old one, and people recognised it. It just demonstrated the stupidity of these children, who’s only thoughts were moulded from their parent’s misguided and old-fashioned opinions.

Stikes took a step toward him, cold eyes darkening further. He was much bigger than Harry, who was small for his age, and Harry took a few shaky steps backwards. “Would you like to reconsider that statement?” The other boy spat out, his friends crowding around him in a show of support.

“No, actually, I wouldn’t. If you decided to to actually think for yourself, you would realise that choosing to hate someone based on their parents blood is the very height of stupidity.” Harry bit out, his back bumping into the wall behind him. He was even start to sound more like Tom, he realised. Stikes looked around and grinned at his friends, who were all egging him on. At this point, Neville had packed up all his things, and ran past them all out of the classroom, flashing Harry a guilty grimace. What a rat. As Stikes raised his fist, as if to hit Harry, Tom chose that moment to step forward from where he’d been leaning against the doorframe, watching this all play out. Even Harry felt a little scared of the expression on his face. 

“Henry Stikes. It’s a shame you feel you have to mimic your Father’s physical abuse to retain the friendship of others. Surely, as someone who knows what it’s like to be bullied by someone bigger than yourself, I would have thought you would be less than keen to pass the experience on.” Tom spoke quietly, but his words had an immediate effect. Stikes went very pale, seemingly aware of the reaction behind him, and then all at once very red. 

“Shut your mouth Riddle, my Father’s never beaten me.” Stikes’ eyes flickered around his friends, who looking surprised and then amused.

Tom sighed, and flicked his wand, drawing up the sleeve of Stikes’ robe to reveal a large handprint, decorated in varying shades of purple and green, running up the length of his arm. The other boy hastily shoved it down, but the damage was done. 

Tom met Harry’s eyes in a silently and tilted his head towards the door. The two boys slipped out of the room, hearing the taunts and laughter begin behind them. Harry wasn’t at all sure how he felt about that. It had been the first real cruelty he’d seen Tom display. Sure, some of the things he said sometimes made Harry flinch a bit but… this was different. He’d mercilessly exposed someone’s darkest secret like it was nothing, knowing that the other Slytherins in the room would treat that as blood in the water. How did he even know that Stikes’ Father had been hitting him? Harry wasn’t sure if he was comfortable with this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hola (I'm in Spain at the moment)!
> 
> Sorry this is a little late, I've been super busy! But I have LOVED reading all your comments so thank you very much for those.
> 
> If you wouldn't mind, please could you let me know how you feel about inserting little snippets of Tom's POV? Does it break the continuity of Harry's POV, and seem out of place - or is it a helpful insight to move the story along a bit?
> 
> Let me know and enjoy reading lovelies!


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers!
> 
> Again, I have to thank you all for the comments and kudos *hugs*. Seriously the best part of my day is waking up in the morning and reading though them all - it really motivates me to keep writing this.
> 
> Also, just a reminder that at this point Harry is eleven and Tom is twelve (I’ve thrown the canon and decided that his birthday is in September). If you're wondering when the slash will begin, pretty soon the story's pacing will start to speed up, and there are quite a few time-skips coming up. I'm planning to get them to around 14/15 within the next few chapters.
> 
> Happy reading, and please let me know what you think~

Five months had come and gone. The cool September weather had slowly sunk into a frigid winter, so cold the air outside would bite at Harry’s cheeks, turning them a raw red if he stayed outside for any length of time. Hogwarts had a strange kind of charm, surrounded on all sides by a thick blanket of snow. Tendrils of frost crept intimately up the edges of the window of Harry’s room, shielding it from the pale sunlight which would linger briefly until around four o’clock in the afternoon. Their first term had passed _exceedingly_ quickly, in Harry’s opinion. September was an excited blur of firsts, which had smoothly segued into October (and of course, Halloween), followed by November sliding quickly into December. Much like the majority of Hogwarts students, Harry had gone home over the three week Christmas break to see his parents, and see the new year in as a family. 

He’d told his parents within the first week of school, unable to bear keeping his place in Slytherin from them and sick of tossing and turning at night over fears of rejection. From the letter he’d received back, all of his doubts had been easily assuaged; at least over paper his parents had seemed confused, but mostly proud of him. He could image the many hours of discussion they would have had to wrap their heads around it - he, for one, was still trying. 

But as soon as he’d stepped off the train at Kings Cross for the Christmas holidays, and seen his Mother’s familiar flash of red hair, he knew he had been worrying for nothing. He’d bid his goodbyes to his friends, Tom included, promising to write, and rushed into their waiting arms, the smell of his Mother’s perfume hitting him like a punch to the stomach. He’d missed them, he’d realised, and squeezed her tightly. Over a welcome home dinner, they’d had a long conversation about how he was finding Slytherin, how it had come to be, and his Dad had given him a lengthy speech of reassurance that no matter which house Harry had been sorted into, he was still his Father’s son. 

Pretty soon, the break was over. Harry had felt pretty ambivalent about it - on one hand, he’d missed Tom desperately, having grown used to the other boy’s quiet cynicism, but on the other he was loathe to let his parents go for another few months. One pro though, was the Nimbus 2000 he’d received for Christmas. Throughout the first term, Harry had been utterly captivated with flying. Like Tom, he seemed to be a natural, and was whizzing ahead of everyone else while the rest of his class was just trying to stay on. From there, he’d been drafted into the quidditch club, practising around three times a week. Tom had insisted on charming his robes with extra strength heating charms, to make sure he didn’t freeze up on his broom when he was high up above the castle, practising his manoeuvres.

They’d been back at Hogwarts for a week now, but already the same old trouble had started up. The problem, Harry thought, was that the general respect for Tom had been too well established, too early on. He was viewed in awe by the majority of the Slytherins, for the numerous points he won for their house, whenever a professor made the mistake of asking him a question when they thought he wasn’t listening. Harry suspected it was more than likely he _wasn’t_. But Tom being Tom, would answer every single question perfectly, even as they got more and more impossible as the poor Professor tried to reassert their dominance. Pretty soon, they learned not to call on him unless they themselves were Slytherin and were looking for an easy way to get their house some more points. The rest of the class seemed to waver between fear and wary respect, having seen pretty quickly how brutally Tom would verbally cut down anyone that targeted either him or Harry. 

To put it bluntly, Tom was left alone. And, by extension, so was Harry whenever he was in the company of the other boy. But Tom had soon been moved up a year in a few classes, which left Harry alone and vulnerable. Not to say that Harry had no friends - he was actually still on pretty good terms with Oliver (who also became surprisingly friendly with Tom), who seemed to have forgotten all about the room mix up at the beginning of the year - and got on well enough with everyone else. Everyone apart from Stikes.

It was almost embarrassingly transparent. After the first incident, Stikes had tried to ambush Tom as he was coming back from class the next week. Obviously, it did not end well for him, and he slunk off, beady green eyes filled with anger but seemingly having learnt his lesson. Unfortunately, as it turned out, he had just decided to switch target: to Harry. Stikes had been performing slowly mounting acts of aggression and intimidation, but only when Harry was alone, when Tom was in his second year classes. It had started off with the back of Harry’s neck prickling in class, and he’d turned around to see the other boy glaring at him with overt disdain. Then it had moved on to little pushes and shoves, too small for him to be called out on for. Right before the break it had escalated to Harry being knocked to the floor, or into walls. The last time he’d seen the blonde-haired idiot, he’d been tripped up and knocked his arm into the wall so hard as to leave a rather nasty bruise, about the size of a cricket ball, spanning his shoulder. Tom had clearly not been too happy about that, but Harry had played it off as a war-wound he’d sustained in quidditch practise. In response, Tom had snidely denounced the game as a way for masochistic block-heads to whack each other around (Harry was quoting), and refused to supplied him with a bruising salve until Harry had begged him for a good ten minutes.

He hadn’t wanted to tell Tom about it. He had to sort out his own problems by himself - he already relied on the other boy too much. Tom would stay up to help him with his homework (on top of his own from all the extra classes he attended), give him spells to practise his wandless magic on - in secret, of course - and often help patch up the injuries he _did_ get from quidditch. Not only that, but the whole Stikes situation was also pretty embarrassing: Tom had easily dealt with Stikes in the first week, despite his painfully inflammatory comments, and been totally left alone since. Whereas Harry had been dealing with his stupid aggression for months, and hadn’t yet found a way to solve it. 

So far, Harry had just become really, really adept at slipping out the classroom first, and avoiding being alone before and after the classes he shared with the Slytherin boy. The latter was easy enough, as he shared most of his classes with Draco, who’s scathing humour and wit (although sometimes at the expense of others - Neville, mostly), Harry found himself starting to appreciate. When he’d actually started to talk to the other boy beyond pleasantries, he quickly realised that a lot of the stupid bravado was exactly that: bravado.

On this particular morning, he’d been glumly reluctant to leave the cosiness of his quilt. Tom, inhuman creature that he was, had been out of bed at six, preoccupied by some spell he’d recently discovered and was trying to master. Probably meant for fifth years. Harry had shoved his pillow over his ears to block out his soft incantations, and groaned loudly to make a point.

“Oh fine then. Go back to sleep and stop complaining.” Tom had replied scathingly, flicking his wand in Harry’s direction and going immediately back to his practise as soon as a silencing bubble had popped over the younger boys head. Harry had followed his advice and done just that. 

He was woken out of his warm doze by the obnoxious ringing of his alarm at quarter past eight. Sleepily, he threw out an arm, and tried to bash it into subservience. It worked, surprisingly, but the damage was done and Harry was awake. The curtains were open, showing an unusually bright blue January sky peeking through the window panes. Harry struggled up in bed, feeling around for his glasses and slotting them onto his face. He caught sight of his hair in the reflection of the glass - the alacrity with which it stood up in great black tufts, following every possible direction was, quite frankly, alarming. Tom was sitting up in his own bed, made with a military-like neatness like it was every morning, and looked up at Harry from the thick book he was reading. Harry saw his gaze drift up to his hair, before Tom looked away, shaking his head slightly in what looked like disbelief.

“Yes, if that’s what your thinking. It _does_ defy the laws of physics.” Harry supplied, yawning, not even trying to press it down. 

Tom raised a dark eyebrow sardonically. “It never ceases to amaze." He said dryly, turning the page of his book.

Harry nodded in sad agreement, and wormed his way out of the duvet. Although the radiators were on full blast, the air in the room was still colder than he would have liked. Shivering, he grabbed his towel and made his way to the bathroom. He took longer than usual in the shower, turning his face under the hot spray in an effort to wake up. Consequently, as soon as he got back to the room he had to dress in record time, as Tom was refusing to wait for him. 

The two boys made their way to the Great Hall, hastily slipping into their usual seats next to Oliver, Draco, and Draco’s ‘henchmen’, as Harry liked to call them. Breakfast was already in full-swing; buttered croissants littered the table, with great platters of fruit and bowls of steaming porridge perched at regular intervals. Harry reached for some toast, adding a healthy dollop of thick strawberry jam. 

“Morning.” Draco mumbled, head in hand; like Harry, he was also decidedly not a morning person. Tom nodded, reaching for the coffee. Harry found it unbelievably weird that Tom could actually drink the stuff - it was way too bitter for his tastes. Tom and Draco had developed a kind of odd tolerance to each other over the months. It was clear that Harry was unwilling to relinquish his friendship with the other boy, and also Oliver (one of the only people who’s company Tom actually appeared to more than tolerate) seemed to be on good terms with Draco too. Their group dynamic was still a little shaky, but the time spent apart over Christmas had pulled them all in a little closer upon their return. In many ways, Oliver was quite similar to Tom - he did well in pretty much all the subjects, and seemed uninterested in forming superfluous friendships. Despite this, his easy-going nature ensured that he remained amicably popular with most of the first years, even including a few Gryffindors.

The arrival of owls, and the sounds of newspapers being thunked down on the tables interrupted Harry’s musing. They had all come to dread the arrival of news from outside of Hogwarts. Just before Christmas, a name had started cropping up, no matter which newspaper you read. _Grindelwald_. At first it was just little bits and pieces: the Hungarian wizard had been arrested for small crimes - mostly for the theft of various dark or illegal magical objects - and promptly released, every time. Then news came of the large following he was amassing, made up of prominent dark-leaning wizards and witches. And then came the brutal and distinct murders of important political figures in central Europe, which could never be formally attributed to Grindelwald himself. He’d been playing a dangerous game, and was, as of last week, one of the most wanted men in the country for his troubles. He’d been slowly moving west, from Germany, and the ramifications were already starting to be felt. There had been rumours floating around that he was targeting influential individuals who were campaigning for muggle equality, and sure enough Harry was slowly getting used to seeing the death of one splashed across the front page each week.

Ignoring the newspaper which fluttered down, narrowly missing his toast, Harry snatched a periwinkle-blue envelope out of the air which had been heading for his head. A genuine smile stretched across his face as he recognised the familiar handwriting on the front. Along with a letter wishing him well and asking him how he was finding his second term, his parents had also enclosed some more green quill ink, which Harry had been running out of, and a packet of Wizochoc. Surprisingly, next to him Tom had also received a letter. Tom’s owl (much less recalcitrant than Harry’s, who aimed for the back of his head _every single time_ ) had politely dropped his letter on his lap, and flown away gracefully. Harry guessed it was from his parents, although he tended to write to them pretty infrequently. 

“Tom.” Harry waved at him to draw his attention from where it was scanning the page. “How close are you to your parents?” He blurted out, and instantly regretted how it sounded. “Not to be intrusive.” _Shit, that sounded extremely intrusive._ “As in, do you talk often with them?” Harry could feel the heat spreading across his cheeks as he spoke. His brain-to-mouth filter was obviously out of commission this morning.

If Tom cared, he didn’t particularly show it. He refolded the letter and placed it on the tablecloth in front of him. 

“I’m fairly close with them. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering,” Harry said meekly. Tom leant back in his chair. To the other side of him, Oliver was chatting to a second year about the best way to perform an _aguamenti_ spell.

“I don’t think they understand me very well. But they do love me, in their own way.”

Harry nodded in understanding. He could relate - to the understanding part, of course.

From across the table, Hermione Granger was, as usual, looking at Tom. Harry found it quite amusing - Hermione seemed to oscillate between a heavy frustration that Tom consistently scored higher than her in every single undertaking, and a kind of sycophantic devotion, for exactly the same reason. On top of Stikes, Harry also had to deal with the idiot Gryffindor trio: Neville, Ron and Hermione. They were mostly harmless and their irritation with him was usually conveyed in passive aggressive whispers and glares at the most. Harry wasn’t actually too sure what he’d done to deserve it, but left them alone for the most part; he suspected it was just a house rivalry kind of thing. That being said, it was still a bit of a bitter reminder about how close he’d come to being the fourth in their little group - he could easily imagine it, if he’d have chosen Gryffindor. 

Draco looked over at his sigh.“What’s the matter, Potter?” He asked, dozily peeling an orange.

Harry gestured to Hermione, and her irritatingly intense stare. “It’s putting me off my breakfast.” He complained, half wishing Tom would do something to make it stop. 

Draco grinned, suddenly looking a lot more awake than he had moments earlier. Putting down his orange, half-peeled, he withdrew his wand under the table.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing?” He asked suspiciously. Tom was starting to smile too. 

With a flick of his wand, and a few words, Hermione’s cereal bowl suddenly flipped into her chest, splattering her robes and face with milk and soggy bits of cornflakes. The look on her face was one of surprised anger. Immediately, the red-headed Weasley sitting next to her stood up, pointing a finger in their general direction. He seemed to be shouting something, but Hermione tugged him back down and started to wipe herself off with her napkin, looking positively fuming. 

Next to him, Draco et al were laughing hard, and even Tom and Oliver seemed to be greatly amused. 

“Now Draco, that wasn’t very nice.” Oliver’s easy reprimand fell a little short due to the wide toothy smile on his face.

Draco looked to Tom for approval, who was sneering openly. It was another little jolt to Harry, a reminder of just how cold the other boy could be. Harry felt bad for Hermione… but even he had to admit, it was kind of amusing. And at least she’d stopped her lovesick mooning. Regardless, he went to open his mouth to admonish Draco when he was interrupted by a girl standing up suddenly from the Ravenclaw table. Her hands were covering her mouth and tears were pooling in her eyes and spilling out over her cheeks. Open mouthed, he watched on as Professor McGonagall quickly hurried her out of the hall, gathering the Ravenclaw in her arms as if to shield her from the curious onlookers. Harry immediately felt a sense of dread; the girl had been weeping openly, her horrified white face burned into Harry’s retinas. 

“What was that about?” He whispered to Tom, Hermione forgotten.

Tom didn’t know, but by the end of their first period, everyone did. Her name was Sabrina, and her sister had just been killed by a Grindelwald attack on a school in the east coast of England. Harry felt terrible, as did the rest of the class. The corridors were quieter than he could ever remember them being, people walking quickly to their next lessons in pale silence, eyes down and faces grim. It had shaken them all. Grindelwald had reached Britain.

 

 

 

 

 

He should have seen it coming. Maybe it had something to do with the rising tension in the school, or the other boy feeling forgotten in the drama… or maybe it was just bad timing. But not two days after the incident at breakfast, Harry found himself face-down on the frozen, cobbled floor of the courtyard outside, desperately trying to shield his stomach from the kicks that were currently being aimed at it.

How had this happened? Simply, Harry had let his guard down. 

He’d decided to skip lunch today, and instead go outside to let Needle hunt for some food when it was quieter, and most people were occupied in the Great Hall. He didn’t want to take any chances with her discovery. Tom was busy with his second year classes on this particular day, and so Harry assumed he would be eating lunch with the second years later on. He’d had been happy to wander back to his room after his Charms class, retrieve Needle (who had been hissing excitedly all day about getting to leave Harry’s room), and jog down to the grounds to release her. He’d been sitting on a bench, wondering if she’d mind terribly if he went back inside in the warmth until she was ready, when a force from behind smacked his head into the exposed brick of the wall, so hard he had to blink away the dizziness, and the overwhelming need to empty his stomach on the floor. Unfortunately for Harry, somehow Stikes had realised that he was a) alone somewhere secluded, and b) free of his Tom-shaped shadow - and had as such followed him outside. 

Something hot and stinging dribbled into his eye, obscuring his vision. Groaning, Harry raised a hand to his head, and had just enough time to see the blood covering his fingertips, before he was thrown to the floor roughly. He cried out as the other boy’s foot connected with this chest with enough force to leave him breathless and panicking, pain flashing through his nervous system and tripping into his brain.

“Hello Harry.” Stikes grinned, punctuating each word with another kick. Harry couldn’t move, couldn’t quite breathe. Stikes must have broken something. Through the skew of his glasses, Harry could see another boy near the doorway, lurking nearby. 

“H-hey…” He croaked out, trying to draw his attention. The other boy turned around and stared at the scene, before looking back towards the entrance. 

“No, Harry. You leave poor Rufus alone - he’s busy minding the door, making sure we get our alone time.” Stikes said, with obvious glee. He grabbed hold of Harry and pulled him to his feet, nearly wrenching his arm out of its socket. Harry couldn’t stand up straight, there was a burning in his ribs. He swallowed the gasp of pain, eyes locked on the sadistic smile on the other boy’s face. 

“Wh-” He had to pause for breath. “What is your _problem_? Are you really this insecure or do you just take after your Dad?” He gasped out, clutching his torso with his uninjured arm and glaring up at the other boy.

Stikes face went unreadably dark, and he hopped from foot to foot, drawing his hands up like a boxer and cracking his neck from side to side. It was almost comical. “Shut your fucking mouth you slimy shit. You tell Riddle. An eye for an eye.” He snarled, pushing forwards towards Harry. The blow landed on Harry’s face, and he bit his lip to stifle the sound, blindly trying to kick the other boy away. His foot connected with Stike’s groin, and the bigger boy let out an ‘oomph’ in pain. He drew back for a moment, letting Harry see the fury burning in his eyes (did he think Harry wasn’t going to fight back?), before slamming Harry’s ribs with more hits. Harry couldn’t breathe, not even to scream out in pain - it felt like his ribs were splintering into his organs. Frantically, he tried to find his wand, hands ripping through his pockets. Another blow landed on his back. Another one on his thigh. Finally, his palm landed on the reassuring wooden hardness of his wand, and he whipped it out, skittering backwards on the cobblestones and meeting the other boys eyes.

“You can either leave _right now_ , or you can stay and we can both find out what happens when a _diffindo_ is cast on a human.” He didn’t know what he looked like, but it must have been convincing enough to make the other boy take a step back. His voice didn’t sound like his own - it was frighteningly cold.

Harry raised his wand higher, threateningly. Stikes narrowed his eyes, staring at him for another agonising few seconds as Harry desperately tried to project confidence in what he’d said - in reality he had no idea how to cast a _diffindo_. Finally, the other boy spat on the ground in front of him, and walked back inside with the boy called Rufus, shutting the door with a slam. Harry waited a beat more, to make sure they were gone for good, before letting out a moan of pain. He limped back to the bench and gingerly eased himself down, unable to help the tears of pain and frustration from welling up in his eyes.

He’d never been in a fight before, never had to feel that particular brand of helplessness. He’d been terrified, he admitted to himself. What if he’d let this wand in his room? What if Stikes had called his bluff? How far would the other boy have gone, just to prove a point to Tom? That was the most humiliating part. That beating up Harry was just a proxy for Stikes' hatred for Harry’s best friend - it wasn’t even personal. Beneath the fear, Harry could feel a deep rage simmering in his blood, at the injustice and stupidity of the whole situation. He couldn’t take a deep breathe, the pain was too great, and so he was forced to sip in little bits of air. Now the adrenaline was wearing off, he could feel the cold creeping in, freezing the blood on his face and numbing his hands. He couldn’t stay here. 

He gave himself a moment or two to ready himself, before trying to stand up, supporting himself on the bench arm. He managed to hobble to the door, push it open with his body weight, and slip inside. Thankfully, lunch was still going on, and the hallway was still deserted. Harry was reasonable sure there was a small boys bathroom just a little further down the hall, and wincing with every step, he managed to reach it without tearing up. Once inside the bathroom, he sat down on a cubicle lid near the door and tried to breathe. 

It was an unbelievably lucky coincidence (and Harry was thanking whatever Gods that were out there that it was him and not somebody else), but five minutes later, the door swung open with a creak, and Oliver Knox stepped inside. The other boy’s soft brown eyes widened in shock as they latched on to Harry. He must have looked a state. Harry smiled weakly up at him. 

“Harry! What on earth happened to you?” Oliver asked, crouching down and running his gaze over Harry, obviously trying to figure out the extent of his injuries.

“Stikes.” Harry bit out between breaths. “That little prick cornered me outside.”

“We were wondering why you weren’t at lunch… and then we saw that Stikes was gone as well.” The brown-haired boy bit out angrily. “Shit, I was too late. Harry you need to go see Madam Pomfrey.” He said, trying to help Harry stand up. “Immediately.”

“No! No, it’s fine. She’ll ask too many questions, and I'm pretty sure I can sort this out. Just help me get to my room?”

Oliver was biting his lip in indecision. “I don’t know any healing spells - you need to get checked out by a professional, Harry.” 

“It’s fine.” Harry got to his feet, still trying to hold his ribs in place. "Put a glamour on my face?” 

Oliver reluctantly did as he was asked, and soon enough Harry appeared normal to the outside viewer - the blood and swelling had jarringly disappeared with a simple wave of his wand. He just didn’t _feel_ normal. The two boys slowly walked up the stairs to Harry and Tom’s room, pausing every few minutes. By the time they reached it, Harry was extremely pale and Oliver was pretty much taking most of his body weight.

“Tom can fix you up. I’ll go fetch him.” Oliver decided, opening the door, carrying Harry through and helping him into bed.

“Ollie _don’t tell Tom_. I have a potion in my trunk.” Harry didn’t want him to find out - this was already deeply humiliating, and knowing Tom, he’d overreact and get himself expelled.

Oliver looked sad, and stared down at Harry. A hand came up to nervously play with his curly hair. “I’m sorry. But you know I’d have to. He’s going to find out, and if he knows I kept this from him, he’d kill me - you know he would.”

“Please don’t.” Harry said, feeling rather light-headed.

“You have Potions with him next, don’t you? He’s going to know something’s wrong when you’re not there.” Oliver tugged Harry’s shoes off as he spoke, and turned to leave, pausing next to the door in concern.

“Do you want me to stay?”

“No…” Harry murmured as the room span around him. Suddenly not being able to breathe properly didn’t feel so bad. His head was buzzing nicely. 

Ten seconds later he heard the door softly close, and Harry’s eyes followed suit.

 

 

 

 

 

Harry woke up groaning, feeling a tear slip out from where it had built up between his eyelashes as he'd slept. The world was blurry and his ribs felt like he’d been stabbed. He had the worst headache he’d ever had in his life and all he could taste was the coppery tang of blood in his mouth, filling his throat. Worse than all of this though, was the gradual realisation that Tom was staring down at him, looking absolutely furious. 

_Shit_ , he’d passed out - he’d meant to try and fix himself up a bit before the other boy had gotten back. Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Tom raised an arched eyebrow in angry disbelief, cutting him off with a look. 

“Harry, you have a fractured rib, a very nearly dislocated shoulder, and most likely some mild internal bleeding.” He said evenly, voice freezingly cold. 

The green-eyed boy tried to take a breath to reply... and promptly failed. “Well that explains the pain.” He managed to wheeze out, biting his lip.

If it was even possible, Tom’s glare managed to get a degree more icy, and his fingers tightened forcefully around Harry's wrist. The other boy winced. “Yes, I should think it would.” Tom bit out, letting go of Harry's hand once he'd stopped trying to tug it away, and gently placing the backs of his fingers on Harry’s forehead. It felt nice: his hand was cool and after a moment Tom started to stroke his hair back softly. Harry closed his eyes, relaxing into it. He heard Tom shifting on the bed, edging close until the side of their bodies were touching. 

“Who did this to you, Harry?” Tom asked quietly from above him. He definitely already knew, Harry was sure. Even if he didn't, Oliver would tell him anyway. He tried to sigh, but it didn’t quite work and he ended up letting a sharp noise escape past his clenched teeth.

He wasn't going to play this game. “You know very well who.” Harry murmured, opening his eyes and looking into Tom's face. He could feel the hot acridity of his dislike for the perpetrator swimming around in his stomach, and he knew from the other boy's expression that it was visible on his face. Tom was without a doubt going to do something... and right now Harry didn't know if he wanted to stop him or help him.

Tom said nothing, just looked at Harry, eyes tracing the streaks of dried blood from the cut on head. He completed his visual examination, then sighed, muttering something under his breath. All at once, Harry’s chest felt warm - like he was lying in a hot bath. With every second, a bit more of the pain leeched away, replaced by a distantly numb feeling. Harry squirmed on the bed at the heat, nearly crying with the relief. Tom must have seen it on his face, as his gaze softened, ever so slightly, hand creeping back over his wrist and reassuringly rubbing a thumb over his pulse.

Tom spent the next couple of minutes running his cold fingers over Harry's torso, fixing the worst of the bruising littering his sides. Every time he found something, his expression would go very blank, before smoothening out. Harry had been too thankful to feel embarrassed about unbuttoning his shirt and gingerly shrugging it off - the mess of purple and red patterning his stomach from the kicks he’d received kind of took all of Tom’s attention anyway. He couldn't do anything about the headache though, as even Tom wasn’t confident enough in his healing ability to mess with something as delicate as swelling in the brain. 

When the other boy was done Harry felt a million times better, aside from the headache and a fiercely aching shoulder. When Tom had tried to heal it, he’d passed out for a second, before being gently shaken awake, blinking spots from his vision. Now the other boy just looked tired, black hair unusually messy and falling into his eyes. Harry realised how lucky he was - Tom was probably (definitely) the only first year in the school who could have used all those spells so perfectly. He said so, words coming out in a slurred mumble, not tired enough to miss the smirk on the other boy's face. Harry could feel the exhaustion creeping back in - it was an effort to keep his eyes open, and blinking just felt like rubbing his eyeballs with sandpaper.

"Go to sleep Harry." Tom whispered staring down at him unblinking for another few minutes, watching Harry fight to keep his eyes closed. The next thing he felt was the bed shifting slightly as Tom stood up. Harry knew where he was going. He was just too tired to think about it right now… He’d do it later…

 

 

 

 

 

Nobody would tell him. Harry knew - _everyone_ knew - but Tom had said or done something to ensure there was some kind of… veto in place. _Harry Potter isn’t to know_. Oliver had confirmed what Harry had said, that day, and then Tom had done something terrible. 

Stikes wouldn’t speak any more. He wouldn’t even look at Harry, but he wouldn’t _speak_ to anyone. The most Harry had gleaned - from the nurse in the sick bay - was that it was some kind of freak accident; something had disrupted the neural pathways enabling speech, and they didn’t think he’d ever get it back. They thought it was genetic.

He’d challenged the other boy at the beginning, thought about what his parents would say if they knew what had happened, if it would change their opinion of Tom... if it would change their opinion of him, because he didn't stop it. If he was honest, a part of him felt disgustingly vindicated - and it was that dichotomy which seemed to be tearing him in two different directions. Eventually, Harry had sat down with Tom, and frustratedly told him that he shouldn't have stepped in - it was Harry’s fight, and that doing whatever he'd done simply _couldn't_ be justified, it wasn't right, and it wasn't what he'd wanted… but Tom hadn’t seemed to care at all, he’d just turned around and said coldly: “Please stop condemning my actions just to validate your fabricated morals. You and I both know very well that it was more than deserved." Harry had spluttered out some excuse, but had had to walk away. Thinking about it, he didn’t even know if Tom _had_ done it out of friendship, or because he wanted to set a precedent that you don’t mess with Tom’s things - friends included.

In his own opinion, Harry still had a somewhat functioning moral compass. He knew it had maybe been skewed slightly, from the decisions he'd been making in Slytherin, and probably had in some part been swayed by the amount of time he'd been spending with the older boy. But Tom’s influence didn’t - or it shouldn’t - have extended to Harry’s basic sense of right and wrong. He knew that what Tom had done was wrong, there was no doubt in his head about that. But it wasn't so easy to detach the emotional side of him from the rational; the thoughts that crept insidiously into his head, rubbing their hands together with glee every time he saw Stikes' haggard face.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I'm back!
> 
> Went back to Uni so it's been pretty hectic. 
> 
> Also... I've been thinking that it would be really nice to have someone to help me out a little with the storyline. I do have a rough plan, but other than that I'm kind of making it up as I go - let me know if you'd be interested!
> 
> Again - thank you to everyone for your feedback on this story!! You guys are the best and I hope you like the chapter!!
> 
> Hugs x

A year quietly slipped by. Grindelwald quickly became a name synonymous with hate and suffering. The atmosphere in Hogwarts had grown tense and uncomfortable over the months leading up to the summer of Harry’s second year (and his thirteenth birthday), and the teachers seemed to have aged suddenly, almost overnight. Dumbledore himself had gradually become more withdrawn, and the students hardly saw him these days. Despite this, the days and months ground slowly on. 

The dynamics of house interaction did not go unchanged either - Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw drew closer and closer together as the newspaper reports grew worse and worse, the students forming a mesh of communal support to surround themselves with. Exempt from this, though, and as Tom had predicted, was Harry’s house. If the dislike and distrust of Slytherin had been muted before (which arguably, it wasn’t), it was now terribly prominent. It was well known that many of the parents of Slytherin children were implicit supporters of the Great Hungarian wizard. Harry knew Draco’s father, for instance, had been supplying the Dark Lord with magical artefacts and financial capital since some time ago. Draco himself was uncomfortable talking about it, but from what he’d let slip, it was easy to put two and two together.

As a house, they were glared at, frozen out, and snidely put down by the other houses. A few notable teachers who had, at least in the past, acted with a veneer of impartiality seemed to change their behaviour too, to Harry’s uncomfortable surprise, eyeing up groups of Slytherins suspiciously and snapping at them for the smallest things in class. This was barring Professor Snape, of course, although he still seemed to treat Harry oddly in comparison to the rest of his peers. In response to the way they were being treated, he’d noticed an internal change in Slytherin too - ironically, in one regard it started not to matter so intensely who your parents were and who they supported. Not that the previous prejudice held any weight for Tom any more ( _always_ the exception), as at the end of their first year at Hogwarts Harry’s peers had come to begrudgingly accept the advantages of his academic brilliance and respect his acerbic wit and political knowledge.

Speaking of academics, Harry, to his badly hidden glee and Draco’s overt annoyance, was now the top student in his flying class, and had actually scored consistently highly all year round. It was the last flying lesson of the year that they would take as a class, and a sort of glum nostalgia was soaking through Harry’s brain. This particular June was hot and steamy, and his broom seemed reluctant to move with much speed. Harry could sympathise - he could feel the back of his hair sticking wetly to his scalp, his fingers slippery on the smooth wooden handle. He would miss flying lessons. They were compulsory for first and second years, but after that he’d just be flying during quidditch. There was something to be said about learning the mechanics of flying though; Harry’s class tutor was a short, passionate woman with deep yellow eyes, who obviously shared Harry’s appreciation of the sport and who explained things quickly and clearly. He liked her. 

Quidditch had started to become a bit of an escape for Harry. It was incredibly cathartic to just let it all loose for a couple of hours, working up a sweat and feeling in control of his body and his muscles. It was a nice reprieve, and whenever he could no longer bear the grim atmosphere, he would run out on the quidditch pitch and feel the wind running cool hands over him as he roughly kicked off from the ground. Today, he decided, he would break away from the group. The teacher knew he was a pretty advanced flyer, and usually gave him a bit more freedom than she did the rest of the class. Harry slowly drifted towards the perimeter of the group, currently trialling loops in the air and yelling with either glee or horror, and flew upwards, going just high enough to fly unnoticed. Tom, although he was perfectly competent, wasn't a huge fan of flying like Harry was, and had at some point towards the end of the year somehow managed to get their teacher to agree that he could spend the time in library. Harry didn’t really mind - he quite liked the time to himself. 

Tom had changed a little over the past year. He’d grown quite a bit, and was now, to Harry’s disdain, a few inches taller. His face had slimmed down and his hair now curled blackly around his ears. He was well-respected by not just the students, but the staff too, and was regarded as one of the most promising students in the year. And of course, Tom and Harry had grown closer. Tom was without a doubt Harry’s best friend, and over the two and a bit years since they had first met each other, he’d come to know the other boy very well indeed: all his foibles and idiosyncrasies. They’d grown entirely used to living together, in the same room - and had formed little habits with each other that neither of them particularly wanted to break. In all honesty, Harry was feeling slightly apprehensive about coming out of that routine when term ended - he liked living with Tom, liked that the other boy would always listen to him attentively whenever he faced a problem and be ready to deliver a logical, rational solution. If he was being truthful, he liked that the other boy was almost a bit possessive with Harry, demanded to know his timetable, and where he’d been if he returned late to his room. It made him feel wanted, like Tom relied upon him to provide something he needed in return.

The only slightly odd thing that had materialised out of this close relationship, was Tom's increasing tactility. At first it was pretty innocuous - he'd briefly run a hand through Harry's hair as he passed by, or would slip a hand around his waist to gently move him out the way of an impending collision when he wasn't looking where he was going. That was fine, if not a little surprising given Tom's general dislike of touching other people. Recently though, he'd started to curl his fingers around Harry's wrist, digits so long they could completely encircle it, and leave it there until Harry had to move. It happened a few times a day, seemingly at random. Maybe they'd be sitting down together, and Harry would suddenly feel the tight pressure and glance down to see the other boy completely ignoring him, enveloped in his book, but warm fingers squeezing his wrist. His other favourite thing to do was to lightly grip the back of Harry's neck, thumb stroking softly over the bump of his spine. It made him feel hot and weird, almost ticklish - that spot was strangely sensitive, and it was like Tom knew exactly where to touch. Harry had been puzzled for a few days, not wanting to awkwardly bring it up, but had eventually come to the conclusion that for all of his charm, Tom was a little socially awkward: this was probably just his way of reassuring himself that Harry was still there, and wasn't going to slip away without him noticing.

Harry startled, blinking out of his pensive stare. _Bugger_ , he hadn’t meant to fly up so high. The air was was icy this high up, and he could feel his breath evaporate, taking the warmth from his chest with it. Hogwarts was spread out beneath him, looking like a toy castle, and he could just make out the figures of his friends against the green of the pitch, far far beneath him. He shivered, locking his knees and preparing to make a dive back down. Something was definitely not right - Harry felt weird and the hair on the back of his neck was standing up. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a crow, disappearing and reappearing, keeping pace with him, and always just out of his field of vision. He started to descend, as fast as was safe, with numb fingers locked onto his broom.

Seemingly materialising out of the wet clouds, something huge and hooded swooped out towards him, tattered cloak billowing behind it like a trail of decay. The air suddenly smelt foul, like rotting flesh, and Harry choked, trying not to breath it in. The thing reached out with a bony hand and it felt like it was ripping his heart out of his chest. Harry felt violated - like the icy, spindly fingers were rummaging through his mind and turning everything cold and dark. Crying out, his hands slipped, knocking his broom out from between his legs, which hurtled down towards the ground. Harry had a moment of pure terror, before scrabbling to find a grip on the thing’s robes, clutching at air, and began to fall out of the sky. Whatever it was, it let him drop, hooded eyes following him before Harry twisted over mid-air, hands windmilling, and it seemed to flicker out of sight. 

His throat hurt from the screams being ripped out of his chest and roughly carried away by the wind. A constant litany of _shit shit shit_ stormed through his head, panic burning away his rationality. He was going to die. He was going to fucking _die. Calm down, Harry. You_ will _die unless you stop panicking and start thinking logically_. What would Tom do? How could he stop himself falling? Or at least cushion the blow? The force of his fall had locked his arms in - he couldn’t get out his wand. The only thing he could possibly do in the ten seconds he had before he crashed into the ground was to try a wandless spell.

“ _Accio_ broom!” Harry roared, closing his eyes and trying to stretch out his fingers against gravity. Nothing happened. 

“ _Accio broom—_ ”. 

His hand remained horrifyingly empty and the green smudge of the ground was quickly rising up to meet him. Through the blur of his eyelashes, he could see the dots of his classmates, staring up at him and pointing. This was an unbelievable stupid way to die, Harry thought. And promptly regretted that as his last thought - it ought to be a bit more poignant, surely? 

Suddenly, something whacked into his fingers, hard. His fingers closed around it by reflex, hands knowing the reassuring shape. A wave of relief poured over him and was absorbed by a sea of fright, as he fought to get the broom underneath himself. He was plummeting quickly, and managed to yank the broom up and away, resulting in a sickening lurch upwards, cracking Harry’s neck backwards with the force of it. He continued to rise, his neck aching, before speedily zooming back towards the ground, letting out a whoop of exhilaration at the fact of his survival, thoughts of the robed creature forgotten for a blissful five seconds.

And then, without direction from him, his speed slowed down to a crawl and he started to float back down towards the ground. Momentarily confused, he cast around, trying in vain to pull his descent. It didn’t work. 

“Harry Potter.” Came a sharp shout. Madam Hooch’s cat-like eyes were burning fiercely with anger, her hands on her hips with her wand clenched angrily in her fist.

Harrys feet touched the ground and his broom crumpled obsequiously to the floor. Harry wished he could do the same - the adrenaline had left his legs shaky and weak.

“Just what on _earth_ was that little display?” She shouted, the other students flinching at the tone.

Harry abruptly remembered the monster in the clouds. “I didn’t fall on purpose! There was a… thing, up there - it came out of the clouds.”

Madam Hooch raised an eyebrow, her cheeks going red with rage. _Did she think he was making fun of her?_

“It was in this hooded robe, so I couldn’t see it’s face, but it’s hand was… almost skeletal. I don’t know what it did but I lost control of my broom.”

“You couldn’t see it’s face?”

“No, but it felt freezing, like it was sucking all the happiness out of me…” Harry trailed off, muttering the last part under his breath. Madam Hooch’s face had abruptly turned quite pale. 

“Now you listen to me Potter,” She barked, striding closer towards him. “I did not give you permission to fly away from the group, and I don’t need you making up lies to exonerate yourself.”

“I’m not lying!” Harry said angrily, looking her in the eyes.

“That will be five points from Slytherin!” She announced, looking around the students, the air filling with groans. Harry clenched his fists.

“But—“

“You will hereby be temporarily banned from further flying, Mr. Potter. I am confiscating your broom, and I expect to see you in my office at lunchtime tomorrow for detention. Class dismissed!”

Harry was shocked - it seemed like a hugely unfair punishment. It’s not like he just fell off his broom on purpose! Madam Hooch strode away, Harry’s broom floating miserably behind her, preventing any further argument. Harry kicked the ground with the tip of his shoe, the pain just making him more furious.

This was unbelievable. There was _something_ up there, something dangerous (Harry felt himself shivering against his will), and she wouldn’t listen to him! Why would he lie? 

“Way to go, Potter.” He heard someone call out mockingly, as the other students drifted away.

Draco came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. Harry resisted the urge to shrug it off - there was no point taking this out on his friend. Instead, he sighed bitterly, leaning into his friend’s touch. 

“I believe you.” Draco said. “The stupid woman just doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She doesn’t know you.”

Harry pushed his glasses up his nose, undoing the spell that kept them adhered to his face when he was flying. 

“I wasn’t lying.” He bit out through clenched teeth.

“I know.” Draco replied, hefting his own broom over his shoulder.

They started walking back towards the Slytherin common room. “What you said does sound familiar though. Describe it again?” The blonde boy asked, staring at the ground.

Harry frowned. “It was pretty tall - around 7ft, covered with this tattered black shroud. There was a hood covering it’s face, but I saw it’s hand - it was like rotting bone. And—“ Harry hesitated, not knowing how to properly describe the feeling it had conjured. “And it was like… like I’d never be happy again…” 

Draco stopped walking suddenly and clicked his fingers, staring excitedly at Harry. “I’ve got it. It sounds like a dementor.” He looked rather pleased with himself; Harry always forgot that the other boy was actually one of the smartest in their class, and, like Tom, had had magical tutoring throughout his childhood.

“What on earth is a dementor?” Harry asked, trying the word out in his mouth.

Draco bit his lip. “Well, they’re supposed to be guarding Azkaban. I don’t know what they’d be doing out here… maybe it’s something to do with Grindelwald. Maybe they’re here for our protection?”

Harry shook his head. “ _That_ was not protection.”

They reached the gates, and headed back into the Castle, running to catch the staircase that led up to the common room just before it moved. Harry still felt cold, despite it being a relatively warm day. He shivered, wrapping his arms around his middle.

“You’re right,” said Draco, panting lightly at the run. “I have no idea.” They stepped past the portrait and entered the Slytherin common room, the familiar sight of green and silver wall hangings easing something slightly in Harry’s chest. Tom was sitting in one of the armchairs, leisurely reading _A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration_ , which Harry was pretty sure was a book for Sixth Years. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Tom’s posture anything but perfect - he looked like he was modelling for a renaissance painting. The older boy had looked up at the sound of their conversation as they entered, eyes briefly flitting between them, and gestured for them to join him. 

Harry recounted what had happened to Tom, who frowned, examining Harry’s face. “Harry, you’re still looking a bit pale. I’ve read that chocolate is a good thing to eat if you’ve just encountered something like that.”

Harry nodded. He thought he had something in his room, but he’d get it later. He wanted to hear Tom’s take on this.

“If that truly was a dementor… I don’t think Dumbledore would have let them onto the school grounds in the first place, even if they were here for protection… and from Madam Hooch’s reaction, she obviously didn’t know. I suppose the only logical explanation must be that the security at Azkaban has been compromised.” Tom finished grimly.

Draco looked horrified. 

“Grindelwald.” Harry stated.

Tom nodded. “It is indeed worrying. What I don’t understand is, how did they manage to get into Hogwarts?”

Draco nodded in agreement. “There’s meant to be a whole load of protection and wards surrounding the castle and grounds, preventing anybody from getting in.” He explained lowly. “If these have been breached…” They all exchanged a look. Things didn’t sound good.

 

 

 

 

 

They didn’t really have a lot of time to mull it over. Nobody believed Harry aside from his close friends, and even Professor Snape openly sneered at him when he recounted what had happened. It was extremely frustrating, and Harry found himself waking up most nights, shaking, to the memory of those freezing hands clutching at him. 

The week afterwards, their Summer exams began in due diligence. Harry had been gradually sucked up into the wave that was Draco and Tom’s revision schedules. Tom was quite laid back about the whole thing - he could just be hiding it, but Harry knew he was the type of person who would read ahead for _fun_ and so was probably genuinely not greatly worried - but both Draco and Oliver seemed to get exponentially more stressed the closer that inaugural Monday came.

The only exam that Harry felt actually, _truly_ prepared to take was DADA. He had a bit of a knack for it, just like his father had, apparently. It seemed to come easy to him - especially with the motivation that Grindelwald provided. It came across a little more practical than his other courses, which made it somehow more straightforward - things which didn’t make sense on their own would just click into place in his brain. Unfortunately however, the second years’ first exam was ancient runes - of which Harry was not confident in, at all. On an overcast Wednesday afternoon, he and his classmates filed into the Great Hall in a somber silence. At four o’clock in the evening the exam began, large clocks floating at regular intervals, and ghost invigilators drifting breezily up and down the rows of tables. 

An hour later, Harry glanced up, away from the front parchment of his exam paper which he'd been studiously staring at for the last few minutes. His brain hurt. The room was filled with the quiet sounds of his year group as they sat fidgeting in their chairs, waiting for their finished papers to be collected. He rubbed his eyes, slipping his fingers underneath his glasses. Ancient runes were so boring. He could see Ollie, seated a few rows ahead of him frowning - at least he seemed to have enjoyed it just as much as Harry. The door on Harry’s left suddenly opened, catching his eye, and he watched as Professor. Snape slid in. His dark, beady eyes scanned the hall, before alighting on Harry. Snape looked… strange. He seemed pale, and his mouth was set in a terse line. He was still staring at Harry. The Professor signalled to one of the ghosts, who’d been drifting nearby, and whispered something in her ear. Harry looked around - nobody else seemed to have noticed him enter. 

Sure enough, the ghost strode over to Harry, walking high up in the air as to not disturb the other children, and swooped down to crouch next to his desk. Harry suddenly felt worried - he didn’t want to know what the ghost was about to say. In a strange, long-dead accent, she whispered into the shell of his left ear, transparent lips sending little chills through his spine as they moved. “ _You’re to quietly pack your things boy, and go to the Headmaster’s office at once._ ” 

Swallowing dryly, he put his pencil case into his bag and, trying to make as little noise as possible, stood up. Snape’s glare was still resting on him, making him feel a little queasy. What on _earth_ was going on? What had he done that was so bad he had to be taken out of an exam before everyone else could leave? The confusion was sparking apprehension, and the feeling just kept building.

He weaved through the desks, feeling the other students stares’ heavy on his back as he passed, and reached Snape, who gestured for him to walk into the corridor outside. Snape stayed inside the hall, and for a while Harry just stood there awkwardly. The portraits in the corridor seemed unusually bleak, and a few further down were pointing at him and whispering to each other. He gave them a pointed look, and they coughed and drifted apart. After about thirty seconds, Snape strode out, his black cloak billowing behind him, and the closed the door quietly behind him. He shifted slightly, and Harry saw who else had followed him out.

Outwardly, Tom looked calm, but Harry wasn’t buying it. He’d learnt to read Tom far better than he could Ancient Runes - there was a tightness around his mouth that belied his true feelings. He was definitely just as freaked out as Harry. Snape placed a finger on his lips, signalling them to remain quiet, turned on his heel and walked towards the staircases. Harry and Tom looked at each other, and followed. Harry slipped his hand into Tom’s, seeking some small measure of contact to reassure himself. Tom squeezed it. When they were far enough from the exam room to not disturb the others, Tom lengthened his stride to catch up to the Professor ahead of them, tugging Harry along by the hand, who blushed when Snape’s eyes flickered to where they were joined.

“Sir, what’s going on? Why were Harry and I made to leave early - have we done something?” He asked, keeping pace with Snape and refusing to let go of Harry’s hand. Snape looked down his nose at him, like usual, but slowed down his pace a fraction. He almost looked like he didn’t know what to say. 

“I think. That’s it’s best for the headmaster himself to answer those questions.” He drawled out, looking at the two boys soberly. Tom stiffened, hand crushing Harry’s for half a second. Harry winced, but otherwise remained quiet, worrying on his bottom lip. They followed Snape along the shifting maze of stairs. 

“What was that about?” Harry asked quietly, when Snape was once again a couple of meters ahead. Tom frowned, looking down at their hands. 

“I didn’t like the way he was looking at us. It was almost… pitying?” Tom trailed off. Harry could see his own nervousness reflected back at him. 

They eventually reached the third floor, and stepped closer to the infamous stone gargoyle which hid the entrance to Dumbledore’s office. Neither boy had been there before, and for a second, Harry’s curiosity made him feel a little less worried. At a strong look from Snape, the gargoyle moved, stretching on his tiptoes, startling Harry who jumped and slipped his hand out of Tom’s grip. Snape spoke the password, and it rolled around to reveal a small stone staircase. 

Out of all the rooms Harry had seen in his two years at Hogwarts, Dumbledoor’s was by far the most interesting. It was a large and beautiful room, curving around the door like a welcome. All the surfaces seemed littered with twitching objects, brightly coloured and all kinds of shapes and sizes. Paper was haphazardly strewn over the desk, elegantly scrawled over in vivid green ink. Harry noticed the Sorting Hat hidden behind some books on a shelf halfway up the wall, which winked at him.

The Headmaster himself was sitting on a deep red sofa in the corner, setting out delicate tea cups on a little glass coffee table. He looked very serious. Snape pushed them over, and Dumbledore gestured for them to have a seat. Feeling rather awkward, though he didn’t know why, Harry sat down, pressing his thigh into Tom’s to comfort himself.

The old wizard cleared his throat, peering at the through the golden rims of his half-moon spectacles. He paused for a few seconds, letting the silence rest in the room. “Harry. Tom. I’m afraid I have some terrible, terrible news.” He said, prompting Harry’s heart to stop beating and fall straight down into his stomach acid.

“I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this. Earlier this morning your parents were sitting together at a coffee shop in Squire’s Alley.” The great wizard sighed, a sigh of exhaustion and sadness. “An unknown member of Grindelwald’s army threw an illegal exploding potion through the window, into the cafe. The resulting blast decimated the building, and unfortunately, both of your parents have been listed as among the victims.”

Both boys were silent, staring at the Headmaster with shock written into their small faces. Harry’s mouth was parted in disbelief and his brows were furrowed in pain.

“Why? Why would they target a _coffee_ shop? What’s that got to do with winning a war?” Harry bit out angrily, tears quickly welling up and spilling over his cheeks. He was crying silently, obviously trying to hold back the sobs.

Dumbledore looked down, his blue eyes watery with sadness and tiredness. He was so tired of having to tell children that their parents had been casualties in a war, a war which his old friend had insisted on beginning. A war that need never have started.

“I do not know for certain, however the Riddles and the Potters were both well known for their muggle advocacy. Seeing as a number of other witches and wizards were also killed-”

At that word, Harry flinched, face turning white rather quickly.

“-I believe it was to send a message; Grindelwald is not simply going after those with power. He’s going after everyone that disagrees with him, that he sees as a threat to his cause.”

Harry thought he might throw up. He was torn between feeling so numb, he couldn’t move his tongue to speak, and so overwhelmed by anger and grief that he wanted to scream. Next to him, Tom hadn’t said anything yet. His eyes were wide and uncomprehending. 

“Are you s-sure it was my parents - our parents? Maybe it was a mistake?” Harry got out, fists clenched so tightly he could feel tiny beads of blood welling up under his nails. Dumbledore looked down at the teacup on the table in front of him, before laying a warm, slender hand on Harry’s shoulder. He peered into Harry’s eyes.

“I’m afraid not, Harry.”

Harry shut his eyes. He didn’t know how to react. He didn’t know how he could do something to get rid of the cacophony of grief, and disbelief, and a deep deep anger at his own helplessness, that was swirling around in his head. 

Tom looked up as the door banged. Snape had left, without offering any words of comfort, without saying anything at all.

He watched as Dumbledore picked up a rose-patterned porcelain teapot, and poured the tea in a light stream through a tea strainer into three cups. It was ridiculous in its mundanity - like they were just there for a little tea party - to catch up. It was horrifically out of place considering what had just happened, and Tom could only guess that the movement was grounding the older wizard a little.

He was finding it hard to be rational. Harry was crying next to him, delightful little sobs that made Tom’s chest ache. He knew, objectively, logically, that there was no reason for the Headmaster to lie to him - his parents must really be dead. But… it just didn’t seem real. He couldn’t muster up the energy to cry. All he could feel was a tiny spark of something, deep down in the back of his ribcage. A little ember of rage, quietly burning away.

 

 

 

 

 

Harry didn’t really remember how he got back to his room. He was dimly aware of students staring at him - they may or may not have figured it out; it wasn’t the first time someone’s relatives or friends had been killed - and Dumbledore’s hand oddly comforting on his shoulder, guiding him. 

“ _Get some sleep, both of you._ ”

He sort of woke up a bit when the door to his room shut with a thump, leaving Tom and him alone. There were two potions on the desk closest to the door - Snape must have left them there. Harry distantly read the looping cursive on the label. _Dreamless sleep_. Harry couldn’t help it - he started crying again at the kindness, great big heaving sobs which built up in his chest and burst out of him. 

His parents were gone. They were never coming back. He’d never to experience one of his mother’s hugs again - never be able to smell her perfume, to have her card her fingers through his hair in comfort. Harry screwed his eyes closed, almost begging to wake up from this nightmare. His father - he’d never get to go flying with him again, or joke about how Slytherin was obviously the better house… 

Harry’s eyes passed Tom, who was sitting on the bed, insular in his grief, and landed on the photograph of his parents on the bedside table. He didn’t want to walk over there, didn’t want to look at it close up. He knew they were smiling and waving at him, kissing each other on the mouth with obvious affection. 

He thought he might throw up, and let out a little whimper.

Next to him Tom suddenly sprung to his feet, walking towards the door like he was going to leave, before spinning on his heel and stalking back towards Harry. His black eyes were more expressive than Harry had ever seen - wild and untamed and slightly unhinged. He stood directly in front of Harry, resting his hands on the other boy’s shoulders and advancing until their faces were just centimetres apart. To Harry’s surprise, Tom’s eyes were wet: a small tear dropped from his eye, trailing slowly down a pale cheek. Harry had never seen Tom cry before. When he spoke, the older boy’s voice was rough, and deadly as he stared wide-eyed into Harry’s own green irises. 

“Harry, I promise. I’ll kill him.”

 

 


	6. Six

Tom didn’t think about the words, just let them fall out of his mouth, but as he spoke he realised it was true. That man, a wizard Tom had, in fact, mildly _respected_ before today, had just signed his own death warrant. The promise wasn’t just to Harry, Tom suddenly knew, he’d made it to himself too. 

He felt weird: his face was hot and wet and… _disgusting_ , he realised, and promptly made the decision to never cry again. It was terribly unbecoming. His friend’s red watery eyes were boring into his own, wide in shock and pain. Tom knew he had to tone down his expression - he was scaring the other boy. He felt like his teeth were too sharp in his mouth, the rage filling him up and burning out anything soft left in his heart. 

It built and built, clouding his head with a strange static, corroding his rationality, his plans, his carefully constructed facade. Harry was staring directly into his eyes, their foreheads touching, looking at Tom with a silent worshipful plea for help. Without really meaning to, without thinking about it, _how uncharacteristic_ , he leaned in a closer, head just shifting the last few centimetres until his lips just brushed Harry’s, only for the briefest of moments. The contact was as light as a feather, but the other boy immediately froze, the muscles in his shoulders bunching and tensing underneath Tom’s palms, spread out over his shoulder blades. The soft, tear-salty little place where their lips met was sending tiny pulses of electricity into Tom’s abdomen, and he was intensely aware of every shift that Harry made, the small sound when his throat moved in a swallow. He knew the other boy was only weeks away from thirteen - that maybe in a year, like Tom, he might understand this, and what it meant. Why Tom had to do it now, so he could be the first. But for now, Tom was loathe to admit, he was too young. Too innocent. 

Reconstructing his expression, he moved away a fraction, leaving Harry to stifle his sobs at a safer distance. 

“ _Harry_.” Tom murmured under his breath, feeling the familiar calmness come rushing back into his thoughts. He let his eyes fill further with tears and made his voice thicken slightly with emotion. He could definitely play that off as an accident, or the better option: a way to bind them closer. Harry was looking up at him helplessly, green eyes huge and filled with tears. Tom thought he looked quite beautiful like that. The younger boy opened his mouth, probably to question what had just happened, but Tom made sure to cut him off.

“We’re going to be OK. We have each other. I won’t leave you, Harry.” Tom drew the other boy in, wrapping his arms around him and holding him through the shakes. He gently rested his chin on the mop of unruly black hair, enjoying the moment Harry’s stiff posture began to unwind and relax into him. They stood like that in the middle of the empty room, Tom breathing steadily and slowly, until Harry’s trembling stopped, and he started to unconsciously mirror Tom’s deep breaths. The boy must have been exhausted; as he relaxed he gave more and more of his weight over to Tom, until Tom was almost holding him up. When he judged it had been long enough for the other boy to calm down, he delicately manoeuvred them over to his bed, stroking his hands up and down Harry’s arms. Harry sat down softly on the edge, hands folded in his lap and staring tiredly into space.

“It just doesn’t feel real. How can everything still be so normal?” He whispered as Tom sat down next to him. Tom didn’t reply for a moment. 

“It’s not normal.” He bent down and untied the laces of his shoes, slipping them off. “Things around us may not have changed, but we have. We should sleep.” Tom sighed, wiping away the tear track on his cheek with his fingers. Intrigued he stared down at the film of water covering his fingertips. 

“Could you… Could you sleep here tonight?”

Harry’s raised his head, finally looking Tom in the face. He was almost surprised at the request and at Tom’s tentative tone, before his eyes alighted on his friend’s wet eyelashes and tight mouth. His gaze softened slightly. Just because Tom acted like an adult all the time didn’t mean he was. He’d just lost his parents too - of course he was acting strangely.

“Yeah.” Harry was falling asleep on his feet already, emotionally exhausted and craving the anaesthetic of sleep. He just wanted not to have to confront the events of this evening - he wanted that numbness. With heavy limbs, he shrugged out of his robe and pulled on the panama pants lying on the top of his own bed, where he’d left them there this morning. He shut his stinging eyes against the tears threatening to well up again.

Tom had drawn back the covers of his bed, and was already lying down, shoved to one side, as Harry turned back around. His friend was more pale then usual, eyes rimmed pink and mouth blood red with how he’d bitten it earlier. He’d lost the look of anger from earlier, and the fury that had kind of scared Harry had been replaced with a drenching melancholy. Harry slipped into bed next to him, pulling the covers up. It was warm in the room, but he was still shivering, head pounding from his tears. He shut his eyes against the light, already fading, and heard Tom whisper something. The room was plunged into darkness.

He slept.

 

 

 

 

 

Harry knew his friends were worried for him. More so for him than Tom, who had seemed to pour his grief and rage into learning everything there was to know about the man responsible. In the month that had followed, Tom had been scarily focused on Grindelwald, coming back to their shared room late at night, and spending all of his free time in the library. Draco had told him that he’d seen Tom in the restricted area, where he definitely didn’t have permission to be, but Tom had acted rather coldly when Draco questioned him about it. It was obvious to Harry that this was just who Tom was; instead of seeping away in his hatred, he was learning about how to enact that hatred. Harry wasn’t stupid. He knew Tom, and he knew the kind of spells Tom was looking at. Dark magic. The kind Grindelwald had been employing to facilitate his rise to power - the kind he’d used to kill Harry’s parents. 

The knowledge that he was now completely alone had come as a sudden realisation about a week after it had happened. Harry had no relatives that he knew of - not one. He was an orphan now, and had nowhere to go when term ended, the date looming ever closer, now only two weeks away. He had been waiting for the anger to kick in, like it had for Tom, for it to make him productive… but the sadness slowly gave way to a strange kind of apathy. He found it very difficult to feel much these days. He was still going to classes, and people were still being inordinately kind to him, which kind of made it all worse. He didn’t want to be treated differently, especially by those who had, just weeks earlier, been going out on a limb to make his life difficult. It was a horrible, awkward reminder. The only person who hadn’t changed was Snape - he still treated Harry in the same, condescending manner as he always had. Strangely, it was somewhat of a comfort. 

Harry was sitting at the dinner table, willing himself to eat something, when Tom strode in. Immediately, Harry could tell something was off - the older boy was looking more stern than usual. He raised an eyebrow in question, and resigned himself to the food that Oliver had taken it upon himself to pile on his plate. He'd been doing that a lot recently - always trying to make Harry eat more, or put stuff on his plate when he thought Harry wasn't looking. The curly haired boy in question quietly moved up a space as Tom approached, letting him slide in between them. 

“Everything OK Tom?” Oliver asked tentatively, sharing a look of concern with Harry.

Tom turned to face him. 

“Dumbledore has asked me to fetch you. I think it’s about your living arrangements over summer.” He bit out, obviously not pleased.

Harry felt his stomach sink. Tom’s distant relative, a quiet, old French witch (who it was rumoured had an extremely loose grasp on reality) had agreed to take him in over the holidays - which pretty much amounted to giving him free reign. They both knew she’d let him do whatever he liked, and at three hundred she had neither the time nor energy to spend on Tom. The plan had been for her to “adopt” Harry too, as his legal guardian, and for the boys to spend their summer together in France. 

“Did you talk to him about Ramelda?” He asked sitting back, and pushing his still-full plate away. 

Toms eyes scanned Harry’s face. “She sent a letter with her batty old owl, which reached him today. For some reason, I don’t think the old man is too keen on the idea of her taking on the care of both of us.”

Draco and Oliver had gone silent next to them, exchanging a worried glance. Draco cleared his throat. “You’d better go now Harry.”

Harry pushed back his seat, and rose, suddenly feeling rather sick. He walked quickly to Dumbledore’s office, ignoring the stares of the other students he strode past. The door to the staircase was already open when he arrived, and he slowly climbed up, staring down at the placement of his feet on the steps. Inside, the older wizard was sitting at his desk, quill in one hand and what looked like a piece liquorice clasped in his fingers. As Harry entered, he popped it in his mouth. 

Behind his crescent shaped glasses, Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled as he gestured Harry in. 

“Please, sit here Harry.” The chair on the other side of the desk seemed to stretch in anticipation, a crease in the brown leather appearing to smile disturbingly. _Dumbledore and his penchant for living objects_ , Harry thought glumly, taking the seat.

“Now, I’m sorry to take you away from your dinner, but I have received some rather important news about your summer living arrangements.” DThe older wizard steepled his wrinkled fingers, gazing at him kindly.

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, trying to keep the sudden punch of dread off his face. 

Dumbledore smiled gently. “Your Aunt and Uncle Dursley have agreed to take you in.” 

Harry’s mouth fell open in shock, and he sat back on the chair, which had gone conspicuously inanimate. 

“I have an Aunt and Uncle?”

“Yes. I believe your mother chose to keep you separate from them, due to a disagreement just after you’d been born.”

Harry was confused, and at the mention of his mother his heart had started to ache. _How could he just suddenly have relatives? And how could his parents have lied about it for his whole life?_

“What kind of disagreement?” He asked, staring suspiciously across the desk.

“It is not for me to say.” Dumbledore murmured, not unkindly. _Iconic._

His head was spinning. _It was just one revelation after another_ , Harry thought bitterly. Tom was not going to take this well - Harry didn’t want to live with his mysterious new family. He wanted Tom. 

“So who are they? When will I meet them - where do they even live?” Harry croaked out, still surprised.

Dumbledore’s answers remained rather vague, but Harry was slightly comforted by the news that he had a cousin ( _he had a cousin!_ ) who was similarly aged. In reality, though, he was still half-sinking into that weird, apathetic mindset again. How could his life have changed so much, in such a few short weeks?

 

 

 

 

 

Two weeks later, the train into Kings Cross started to slow down, signifying their imminent arrival. Across from him, in the carriage they had to themselves again, Tom was staring angrily out the window. He’d been like that the whole journey, snapping at Harry irritably whenever he tried to initiate conversation. It was almost a nice change from the furious seething he’d slipped into when Harry had broken the news of his new relatives. They were both unhappy with the situation, but Harry no longer had the energy to care. 

He felt exhausted all the time, flipping between sleeping away as much of the day as he could, and not sleeping at all, awake in his bed feeling his parents’ eyes on him from their frame on the desk. He felt like he was in some kind of purgatory - he’d gone from feeling the most intensely he ever had, to not feeling so much at all. 

Sighing, Harry nudged Tom on the arm. “We’re arriving.” 

The other boy turned to look at him. 

“You’ll write to me.” He demanded softly, eyes intent on Harry’s. Harry nodded, suddenly feeling off-balance as his emotions returned in full swing. He felt his eyes grow hot. How was he going to last without Tom? The one person who understood exactly how Harry was feeling?

“Every day.” Tom instructed, running a hand across the top of Harry’s (forever uncombed) hair. Harry briefly closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling. 

“Every day.” He repeated dutifully.

The train started to grind to a halt, both boys standing up simultaneously to retrieve their luggage. Harry was acting on autopilot, trying not to think about how this was the last time he was going to see his friend until they started back at Hogwarts, six weeks later. 

Tom must have been feeling similarly, as suddenly Harry felt lean arms wrap around him from behind. The embrace lasted a beat longer than it should have done, but Harry retuned it fiercely, turning around and squeezing his arms around the other boy. He took a deep breath, trying to remember Tom’s smell and trying to blink away the water in his eyes. The other boy was holding on to him just as tightly, fingers making indents in Harry's shoulders. He didn't mind. 

They stood like that for a long moment, until the thump of luggage hitting the carriage floor and noise of students running past their compartment, loudly chatting and yelling their goodbyes, signified that it was time to disembark. Closing his eyes briefly, Harry steeled himself, then stepped away, meeting Tom’s eyes. 

“So I guess this is goodbye.” He said, trying to force a smile to his face, but probably failing. 

Tom's face was unreadable once again. "For now." The older boy conceded. "We might be seeing each other sooner than you think."

"How mysterious." Harry tried to joke, but the tone fell flat and it came out in a mumble. He sucked in a breath. "Thanks for being here, Tom." 

The other boy smiled lightly. "I'll always be there, Harry." He said promisingly. "Enjoy your summer." And with that, he stepped off the train, disappearing instantly into the throng of students and parents filling up the platform. 

Harry watched him go for a moment, trying to follow him with his eyes. Sighing, he bent down and wrapped his fingers around the battered handle of his trunk. Time to meet his new family.

 

 

 

 

 

Thirty minutes later, Harry was standing alone on the platform, still waiting for the Dursleys. Tom had had to leave rather quickly, as he had arranged to meet someone who would aid him in flooing to France. Since then, Harry had walked the length of the platform at least ten times, watching the crowds slowly evaporate, and trying not to feel too grim over the sight of students running to hug their parents. His eyes were drawn to the large clock, high up on the wall, which seemed to be running far more slowly than normal. Despite all the assurances from Dumbledore, there was a little buzz of apprehension in his stomach that wouldn’t leave. _What if they’d forgotten him? And they weren’t coming to meet him after all?_ He missed Needle terribly, and not for the first time during the journey, found himself wishing he’d bought her with him. Tom and him had both agreed that it was better to leave the snakes back in the forest at Hogwarts for now, as both Needle and Nagini had wanted to better explore the Hogwarts grounds (and whatever food they contained, Harry thought); both boys were also going into unfamiliar situations, and didn’t want to have to worry about sourcing food for them.

Just as he began to pace the platform for what must have been the eleventh time, a shrill, feminine voice called out harshly from the direction of the platform exit. 

“Harry Potter?” 

Harry spun around, feeling the buzz grow to a swooping sensation. _It was going to be fine. They were muggles for god’s sake._ He heard Tom’s voice say. The voice which had called his name belonged to a haughty looking middle-aged woman, as thin as the portly man standing next to her was round. Her sharp nose was narrowed and hawkish, and she stared suspiciously at Harry down it. He didn’t find it terribly reassuring. 

“Yes, that’s me.” He answered evenly, trying to sound cheerful walking over. _These must be his relatives - his mother’s sister!_

“Hurry boy!” Barked the man, beckoning him over with thick, sausage-like fingers. Gulping, Harry tried to tug his suitcase along with him faster, feeling every bump in the floor in the joint of his arm. 

“Hello, you must be Aunt Petunia, and Uncle Vernon.” Harry was slightly out of breath by the time he reached them, but extended a sweaty palm anyway. His uncle looked rather disgusted, and neither of them took it. Just as Harry was about to awkwardly retrieve his hand, a pudgy fist shot out and gripped it, hard. 

Harry winced as his fingers were slowly mangled by the boy that had popped up from behind his Uncle. He noticed the two adults looking fairly pleased, as if they were proud of their son’s engagement of him. Frowning, he snatched his fingers back, glaring at the other, rather round, boy. _Delightful._

“Yes, yes, pleased to meet you and all that. No time for chit chat, boy, we’re already late.” His Uncle muttered, turning around to grab his wife’s hand, and starting to stride off.

Harry couldn’t quite believe the rudeness he was witnessing - how were these people remotely related to him? _Surely not._ He could already see why his mother had decided to keep them from him. Attempting to keep the disappointment off his face, he grabbed the handle of his suitcase, and tried to keep up, half running at times. The Dursleys had, it seemed, almost forgotten him already, and were involved in their own little squabble with his cousin, over the football game they were apparently missing.

It was an absurd situation, and continued to be absurd right up until the moment Harry, pushed into his tiny little room with his trunk all but thrown in after him, crawled into his horrible creaky bed. Coughing at the clouds of dust thrown up by the covers, he closed his eyes. He hadn’t eaten anything since the train journey - he hadn’t been offered dinner, just told to go to bed. Shakily, he took off his jumper, decorated in house colours, and huddled under the thin duvet. He was still in shock, and horribly frustrated at the situation. He felt the familiar ache beneath his eyes, which had been omnipresent since the day he had heard of his parents death. He willed himself not to cry - these stupid idiots didn’t deserve his tears. 

He felt angry, not just at the Dursleys, but also at Dumbledore. He’d trusted the man! As loath as he was to admit it, he had felt a tiny spark of hope rise up in him at the thought of having some semblance of a family again. But now he just felt betrayed - either he wasn’t worth the time it would have taken for the old man to have had a single conversation with the Dursleys (and realise straight away there was no way Harry could stay here), or he knew exactly what kind of awful people he was giving Harry to. Either way, he couldn’t look at the headmaster in the same light ever again. _How dare he?_ Harry grabbed the pillow, fisting it in his hands to try and release some of his frustration. If Tom knew about this, he’d never have let Harry go. 

_Oh_. Harry realised. He could just send an owl to Tom or something, escape this hellhole, and go back to France with his friend. Dumbledore would just have to accept it.

 

 

 

 

 

Eight weeks in and, unfortunately for Harry, it had only gotten worse. His plan of telling Tom had been discounted a few days days later, when Dursley senior had demanded Harry’s wand. When Harry had (politely but point-blank) refused, the older man’s face had gone red with rage, and he’d stormed into Harry’s box room, grabbing the wand off his bed-side table with a meaty fist, and pushing past the boy, moustache bristling in righteous indignation. 

Harry _hated_ them. They gave him barely one meal a day, and expected him to slave around doing all the household chores whilst they rested on their fat arses watching the television. It was a joke! Petunia had actually drawn up a timetable of his jobs, which he was expected to complete every day or go without dinner. Harry wasn’t an idiot, he knew this must have been illegal. The only problem was, he had no way of contacting anyone - he was barely allowed out of the house, his wand was taken, and he was pretty sure there were some kind of wards up around the place, as doing wandless magic was near impossible and he’d seen no owls at all. He felt claustrophobic and trapped, miserable, and worst of all, absolutely _helpless_. Tom hadn’t written to him, either. Or if he had, Harry hadn’t been receiving it. 

“Boy! Those dishes aren’t going to do themselves, you know.” Vernon shouted over the noise of the television, breaking his train of thought. Harry had stopped finding it surprising that every single night all three Dursleys would sit there for hours, eyes riveted on the stupid flat screen, shovelling food into their faces. 

“They would, if you’d give me back my wand.” Harry muttered, under his breath, glaring viciously at the backs of their heads as he picked up the tea towel, which was an alarming shade of salmon pink. It was a mistake, as his Uncle had arrived back home in an absolutely foul mood - Harry had overhead something about a sale not going right at work.

“What was that?” His uncle barked, turning around slowly and pinning Harry with a dead-eyed stare. Harry was so, so close to losing it, and just telling him to bugger off and do his own dishes. The last time that had happened though, he had ended up being locked in his room for the entire day, without food. Taking a deep, calming breath he shook his head, grabbing a slippery wet dish and starting to dry. _Had these people never heard of a dishwasher?_ He really didn’t feel like acting like a servant again today. His eyes felt like they were burning, and he’d woken up with a blocked nose and an aching head. He sighed again. 

Dudley was obviously annoyed that Harry was getting more attention, as he piped up from his sprawl on the couch, voice annoyingly nasal. “Just like you said, mummy: if his parents were lazy freaks, the little freak can’t help following in their footsteps.” Dudley’s tiny eyes glinted blackly with malice, and he gave Harry a sickeningly condescending smile. 

Harry felt like he’d been punched in the throat, feeling thick black rage cloud his arteries. Was there no limit to this family’s cruelty? His parents had been killed barely two months ago! How _could_ they? Despite this, Petunia said nothing, just let a little proud smile wash over her face, like her son had just told a particularly amusing joke. Harry felt his fists tightening, the plate slipping form his hands and toppling back into the sink. There was a pressure in his chest, the desire to _hurt_ them, to make them pay for insulting his Mum and Dad.

“Don’t talk about my parents like that.” Harry said, as calmly as he could, shaking with rage.

The light flickered once.

Vernon looked up, alarmed, and back at Harry, pushing back his chair and standing up. He must have recognised the hatred in his face. The TV was still on; the crowd roared loudly as someone scored. Vernon’s pig-like eyes were wide with fear and distaste, and he clenched his fists, advancing on Harry. “What was that, you little cretin?” He spat, specks of spittle flying out the corners of his mouth.

“We’ll talk about them all we want, you hear me boy? Those— those _good-for-nothings_ \- the worlds a better place now, without sick _abnormalities_ like them!”

Harry couldn’t help his magic, it surged up without his consent, shattering all the plates on the side, and sparking out the main light. 

“ _Shut up!_ ” He screamed, hatred oozing out of every pore.

Vernon ran at him, crying out with rage and swinging a meaty first at his face. Harry couldn’t doge it in time, and it hit him hard on the cheek, flinging him into the counter. He gasped in shock and pain, blinking stars out of his vision. 

A rough hand grabbed hold of his upper arm, definitely leaving bruises, and Harry was jolted to his feet. 

“We should never have taken you in, that old man took advantage of our natural kindness.” His uncle shouted, shaking him roughly. Harry tried to get away, but the older man was much bigger than him, even disregarding all the weight he’d lost recently. The last thing he saw before he was dragged up the stairs, banging his knees on every step, and thrown into his room, was Dudley’s pudgy face lighting up with malicious glee.

The key turned in the lock behind him, and Harry was alone.

Screaming in rage, he flew to the door, banging on the wood with his fists, but to no avail. Downstairs, he heard the noise of the TV increase, as if to drown out his shouts. Harry felt tears well up, stinging his eyes. He kicked at the door as hard as he could, yanking on the door handle until his fingers hurt. He felt so helpless. He couldn’t even make them pay for what they said about his parents. Harry didn’t think he’d ever hated someone so much, not even Stikes. It was corrosive, coating his tongue and gripping his brain. He’d find a way to get out of this room, and get his wand back. Then he’d make them pay.

 

 

 

 

 

There was a sudden decompression in the air - a pressure change which raised all the hairs on Harry’s bony arms, and jolted him back into consciousness. _He must have fallen asleep_. Groggy, he sat up in his tiny bed, wincing at the sound the springs made, and groped for his glasses on the carpet near his bed. He stifled a cough, feeling dizzy with how fast he’d sat up. The back of his throat was aching, and he massaged it with cold fingers, before lying back down. He wished he hadn’t woken up - his cheek was throbbing in time with his heartbeat from where his uncle had hit him, and he felt exhausted and hungry from his efforts to escape the room. He hadn’t eaten all day again, and his stomach growled, feeling like it was caving in on itself.

He pressed a cold palm to his cheek, wincing, and tried to rearrange himself on the bed so he wouldn’t be in pain. There was nothing he could do - he’d just have to wait until they came to let him out. Which they would have to do soon - after all, what would they do without their housekeeper? Harry let a bitter smile rise to his face. 

Just as he had closed his eyes to go back to sleep, a sharp crack rang out, splintering out from his tiny, barred window. Harry jolted up again, ignoring the frission of pain. The room was suddenly awash with moonlight, pouring in through the apparently burnt glass of the window panes. Harry froze. Sitting on his open windowsill was Tom, wand out and face a grim picture of disgust.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware this is not the best chapter I'ver ever written... but I wanted to upload something for you. I'll probably lightly edit it this at some point in the future, but I wanted to get on with writing what happens next - so here you are for now. 
> 
> Have a great week <3
> 
> P.S. I've been reading your comments through, and I'm REALLY enjoying all the feedback - it's so so nice to hear that people are engaging with this!!! So a massive thank you to every one of you that has commented/given kudos/bookmarked this!


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm back! 
> 
> Thank you all for reading and leaving comments/kudos. As always, it's really lovely to know that people are enjoying my writing.
> 
> This took a while as I've been really really busy, but I also now have all the chapters planned out - so updates should be a little more regular.
> 
> Just to warn you, this is where it starts to take a turn for the dark... I also added some Tom POV in there for you <3
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
>  **IMPORTANT UPDATE:** I've changed a tiny bit of chapter 3 - the little grey worm that burrows into Harry's neck was originally used JUST as a bit of a tracking device. I've now added in that it ALSO works to eat up his magical energy reserves. This doesn't really affect him (it still keeps him at a level that's above average), but it does stop him from tapping into the huge energy reserves that he has.

“What the hell?!” He squeaked out, jumping back and banging his spine on the wall, grappling for his glasses on the side and shoving them onto his nose.

Tom gave him one of those looks full of silent judgement, as he swung his legs over the side and gracefully entered Harry’s shoebox room. Harry didn’t realise how relieved he’d feel by just seeing the other boy - it was like he could suddenly breathe again.

“Really, Harry, you weren’t responding to my letters. What did you expect?” Tom drew up to his full height, casting a disdainful glance around before his gaze settled on the other boy. His eyes narrowed as took in the way Harry was cradling the bony plates of his knees. It was hard not to be embarrassed - Harry knew he looked awful, but it wasn’t exactly his fault. Feeling his cheeks flushing, he tried to distract the other boy from his appearance.

“I knew it. I think Dumbledore’s put up some kind of magical barrier which stops my magic and sends away the owls.” He said quietly, stifling a cough.

Tom’s didn’t blink and just moved closer, ignoring personal space and looming over Harry who was still huddled next to the headboard, thin covers pooled around his hips. 

“It wouldn’t surprise me.” Tom levelled him with a dark look. “Why on earth did you not leave?”

“They took my wand.” The younger boy hissed, insulted, before coughing into his hand.

Tom’s cold hand found it’s way to his forehead and settled there. 

“Silly boy.” he murmured quietly, frowning. “Incapable of looking after yourself when I’m not around to check on you, aren’t you?”

“It’s really been somewhat out of my hands.” Harry said flatly, ducking his head to avoid the fingers. He felt hot and irritable, and was annoyed that Tom thought he’d ended up like this by choice. 

Tom hummed, and reached out again, stroking his hair back and running his thumb along Harry’s scar. In the pale light, he looked different, less human. Even though it had only been a couple of months, he seemed to have changed again - grown bigger, more intimidating somehow. His best friend was remarkably striking, Harry realised. 

He sighed. “I’m really glad you’re here.” He said honestly, closing his eyes. He was tired again, and the rhythmic action was soothing. 

The moment was broken by the sound of heavy footsteps on other side of the house, and the murmurs of his Aunt’s nasal squeal. _Shit. They must have heard Tom’s ‘grand entrance’._

Tom was watching Harry’s expression, and smiled darkly when they both made eye contact. Slowly raising his wand, he levelled it at the door. 

“Do you want to do this or shall I?” He murmured, eyes fixed on Harry’s.

The younger boy raised an eyebrow. “No wand, remember?” 

Tom’s eyes creased in a smile. “Ah. Well. First things first. _Accio Harry Potter’s wand._ ” He rolled his shoulders back, the dark fabric of his cloak spilling out over his back, and flicked his wrist.

For a moment nothing happened and both boys stared at each other. Then the tinkle of broken glass came from the other side of the house and a loud bang erupted from the room next door. Tom flicked his wand again, and the door to Harry’s room broke open, the lock pinging off the wall as it was wrenched apart. Not a second later, the wand came flying in, sailing through the air into Tom’s outstretched fingers with a thwack.

He shivered. It was strange seeing his wand in Tom’s grip. But it was also bloody fantastic to see his wand again full stop - he hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it. He suddenly needed to hold it.

Heaving the covers back, Harry hopped out of bed and stretched out his hand. Tom hesitated for the briefest of moments, eyes observant, before placing the handle in his palm and stepping back. 

“Thank you.” Harry said in a low voice, eyes transfixed on the stick of wood in his hand. Wrapping his fingers around it felt like a missing limb had been returned.

As soon as he touched the wand, a badly timed wave of dizziness worked it’s way up Harry’s spine to his head - the world was suddenly overrun with patches of fluorescence, and he felt his feet and hands go numb, almost like he had pins and needles. 

_He shouldn’t have gotten up so fast._

Harry sucked in a breath, tottering backwards and groping towards his bed as he went blind. 

“Harry?” Tom sounded concerned, and moved forward quickly, grasping his upper arms and gracefully walking them both backwards towards his mattress. 

“Stood up. Too quickly.” He got out, head spinning as he sat down hard. Thankfully, the nausea subsided as he let his upper body roll back on to the pillow. The longer he lay there, the more his head began to clear until his sight was restored, accompanied by a pounding headache. 

“I swear to the Gods, when we get back to France you’re not leaving bed for a week.” Tom bit out vengefully. 

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the sound of footsteps, closer this time. He watched with horror as the large shapes of his uncle and aunt emerged through his tiny doorway. 

Tom stiffened, turning to face the door.

“What is the meaning of this, boy?” His uncle’s meaty fist banged on the light switch, suddenly throwing the room into a sallow yellow brightness. 

“It’s two thirty in the sodding morning - did you not learn your lesson?” Vernon’s voice trailed off as he caught sight of Tom, and the wands that both boys were both holding in front of them. He came to an abrupt halt in the doorway, his wife behind him banging into his back with a soft ‘oof’.

Harry squinted, and turned to face Tom.

He couldn’t work out why Tom was stating at him so intently. The other boy had gone completely silent, eyes stuck on Harry and face shuttered - his expression betrayed nothing, which, Harry had learnt by now, meant Tom was a level above furious. 

“What?” He asked, self-consciously.

“What is that.” Tom asked flatly, black eyes glinting.

Harry looked down at himself, not understanding. And then it clicked. In the light, the ugly bruise and swelling on the right side of his face was very much visible. Harry touched his fingertips to his face, and winced. 

“To- ”

“Did you do this?” Tom whirled around to face Vernon, interrupting Harry’s attempt at an explanation. 

Tom’s voice was cold enough to raise the hairs on Harry’s neck. There was a strange electricity humming in the air, making Harry’s hair stick to his face with static. Vernon almost took a step backwards, but seemed to remember himself and boldly strode into the room instead, rather forcibly clearing his throat. 

“Little freak deserved what he got. I’ll be respected in my own home, you hear me _boy_?” The plump man’s beady little eyes were flitting between Tom’s outstretched wand and his face. Even with the survival instincts of a stale piece of bread, the man could tell that Tom was not someone to treat lightly.

Harry’s aunt slipped out from between the doorframe and her rather large husband, scurrying into the room with a rather terrified expression.

“You… You stop threatening my husband this instant. Dumbledore told me that you students can be expelled for using magic. Don’t think he won’t know!” She shrieked out, raising a trembling finger to point first at Tom, and then at Harry.

Tom let out a little peal of laughter. 

Harry shook his head to clear it. “Uncle Vernon… Aunt Petunia… go back to bed. I’m leaving and you’ll never see me again - don’t make this situation into one you won’t like.” His voice wasn’t as strong as he would have liked, but he managed to raise himself up in bed and look them in the eyes, trying to convey sincerity. _They needed to leave._

Tom’s eyes ran over his face again before he turned back to look at Harry’s relatives. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid that’s no longer an option.” Tom smiled.

Harry opened his mouth to reply but before he could— 

“ _Imperio_.” 

Uncle Vernon suddenly slumped, eyes vacant and meaty hands hanging limply by his sides. 

Harry’s mouth dropped open, panic rushing through his veins. “Tom! That’s an unforgivable— you can’t do this! They’ll never let you back in, Dumbledore has wards to detect magic here.”

 _How the bloody hell did he know how to cast an unforgivable?_ It must have been all that time in the restricted section of the library… Harry realised. There was a growing sense of horror unfurling in the pit of his stomach. He felt like things were moving too fast - his head was hot and cloudy, but his limbs felt ice cold. 

Tom wasn’t listening - he didn’t even turn to face Harry.

“Whatever you’re going to do, don’t do it. They’re just muggles!” His heart was beating like a hummingbird. Something was going to happen - something worse than Stikes.

Tom stepped closer to his uncle, lowering his wand slightly, until they were face to face. Curiously, Tom titled his head and examined the half-lidded stare, the drool slowly oozing out from the fat man’s puffy lips.

“Now… I want you to kill your wife,” Tom looked at Petunia and gave her a small smile as she let out a horrified gasp. “And then I want you to kill yourself. Oh, and make it look believable too, if you wouldn’t mind.” 

Petunia gave Harry a terrified, pleading look, as her husband slowly turned around to face her.

“Vernon.” She whispered, hands coming up to cover her mouth. “Vernon, what are you doing?” 

Harry's uncle’s arms started to raise, and he stepped towards her. Petunia scrambled backwards, out of Harry’s room, and started to scream.

“Tom you can’t do this. Tom - stop it! Reverse the spell!” Harry frantically tried to stand up again but his legs wouldn’t cooperate and he just ended up slipping out of bed. The sudden change in altitude made him dizzy again and he had to hold his breath against the urge to throw up.

“Tom!” He moaned, blinking spots from his vision again. “Please. They don’t deserve to die.”

He felt cool fingers wrap like a steel manacle around his arm and haul him up. Tom shushed him, sitting him up on the bed and gently touching the purple cut high on his cheekbone where the skin had split under the force of his uncle’s blow.

“Harry it’s ok. They’re nothing - nobody will miss them.” The older boy cradled Harry’s head between his hands, touching their foreheads together and wincing at the other boy’s temperature.

“My cousin,” Harry gasped. “You’re killing his parents - you’re making him like us.” 

Tom’s expression was shuttered again. “Ah yes. Your cousin.” 

A scream ripped through the air from downstairs, and the sound of furniture slamming into the ground was loud enough that through the open window Harry saw the lights go on in the house across the street.

“No!” Harry pushed Tom away, scrabbling to get up. There were his only living relatives - yes, he hated them but they didn’t deserve this. Nobody did. Tom’s fists caught his wrists and he groaned in pain as Tom held him through his struggles.

“Let me go!” He panted out, lashing out at the other boy, tears spilling over and tracing a path down his cheeks. He felt the salt aggravate the cut, the pain fuelling his need to escape, to stop what was happening. The room began to tremble, a soft vibration present in every surface.

Tom pushed him down onto the bed, his knees pinning Harry’s torso down into the mattress. “Silly boy.” He murmured again, touching the tip of his wand gently to Harry’s scar. 

“Tom, dont—”

Harry’s voice cut off as Tom whispered something under his breath. A soft black started to creep in around his vision, and Harry felt his eyes closing against his will. Weakly, he tried to push the other boy off but his arms wouldn’t cooperate.

“Tom…” He moaned, lips fumbling around the word. He could feel the spell clouding his head, forcing him under a deep wave of exhaustion. 

Harry slipped into a dreamless sleep; the last thing he felt was a cool palm stroking his hair. 

And then he felt nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

Tom waited a beat to make sure the other boy was no longer conscious, before heaving himself off the bed and standing up. 

The noise from downstairs had stopped - surprisingly quickly. Tom’s heart was still jackrabbiting from the Imperius curse he'd just cast. He couldn’t believe how intoxicating it had felt to whisper the word - the power surge was immense, and he could still feel all the blood rushing through his body. It was the first time he’d dared to use an unforgivable, despite being able to cast one weeks ago. 

He cast a glance at Harry’s sleeping face, peaceful in the silence. The other boy really was quite beautiful - long, thick lashes curved gentle crescent moons into his pale face, marked by thin tracks of tears escaping over his cheeks. It was rather amazing that despite the power-gobbling _corefeeder_ in his neck, the other boy had managed to emit so much magic. His boy was very special indeed. 

A noise from the hallway made Tom rip his eyes away. A small fat boy was trying to creep down the stairs unnoticed, the front of his blue tartan pyjama bottoms wet and clinging.

Tom tutted. 

“I wouldn’t go down there if I were you.” He said conversationally.

The boy must have been Harry’s cousin - he looked about their age, and shared Harry’s dark mop of hair. He let out a whimper, and stopped trying to move surreptitiously, instead stomping down the stairs as fast as he could as Tom started to move towards him.

“Mum!” He called out, voice thin in the silence of the house, and scurried into the living room.

Tom leisurely followed after him down the stairs, gracefully side-stepping the broken furniture and smashed crumbs of glass in his way.

Downstairs, the house was dark and foreboding. The little idiot was still crying out for his parents - did he not realise he had found them? 

Smirking, Tom stood at the edge of the room, and switched on the light with his index finger. There was a beat of silence where the fat little boy froze, staring down at the bodies lying on the carpet. Tom savoured it. 

Then the screaming started. 

It was such a bore, really - such a predictable reaction. For a second, Tom toyed with the idea of killing the thing and putting it out of his misery… before deciding on a better alternative. This way had the added benefit of probably pleasing Harry too, as well as confirming it as an accident. 

“Dudley, is it?” Tom sneered. “Come here.” The other boy looked up, eyes wide and horrified. Tom felt mildly irritated at the way he slightly reminded him of Harry, but pushed it down and walked over to where Dudley was kneeling next to his parents. 

It was a simple task to replace the boy’s memories with those of seeing his parents argue, and watching as his father strangled his mother before he himself slipped, tragically hitting his head off the sharp corner of the kitchen side. The job was done in no more than five minutes, but by the end of it Tom was left feeling grumpy and drained. 

“For God’s sake, don’t just stand there. Call the police.” He snapped, pushing past the other boy to retrieve Harry from upstairs. Dudley Dursely nodded solemnly, trance like, before making his way over to the phone on the coffee table. 

Tom didn’t wait around to hear the call, and instead made his way up the stairs and into Harry’s tiny bedroom. The other boy was still lying peacefully on the bed, unaware of what had transpired in the rooms below him.

Tom sheathed his wand in his cloak and took a deep breath. He could still feel the rage bubbling hotly beneath his collar bones at the way the other boy looked. He should have come sooner, but it took a little time to find his way through the wards dampening the other boy and the location of the _corefeeder_ in his neck. Harry looked awful - he’d lost a lot of weight, and it had barely been a struggle to hold him down earlier.

Placing a palm on Harry’s chest, he left it there a moment, strangely comforted by the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing. Tom smiled. Despite his frailty, it was good to see the other boy. Four weeks was too long. Tom smoothed his hand from Harry’s heart to his shoulder and gripped, hard, fingers leaving indents in his skin.

With his other hand, he felt for the small trinket inside a fold in his cloak, making sure to grasp on tightly. As soon as his fingers made contact, the portkey activated.

 

 

 

 

 

They landed in the middle of the drawing room floor, with a thud. Tom _hated_ travelling by portkey. 

From her rocking chair near the table, Ramelda let out a cackle. 

“Even you can’t land with grace, that’s comforting to know.” She beamed, sans the first three teeth. Her beady black eyes were even colder than Tom’s, and instantly landed on the small, pale form of the other boy on the floor.

Tom slowly got to his feet, dusting off his robes and flinging off the cloak disgustedly. The hem was slightly bloody, and had wrapped around hand as they transported, leaving a smear of black. 

Choosing to ignore the comment, he snapped for the house elf, who came scurrying in immediately. 

“Take the guest to my room, and make sure he’s comfortable.” 

The elf scurried off, Harry’s limp form levitating in tow. Tom watched them go before turning to face his relative. 

She raised an eyebrow, grinning. “That’s the boy, eh? He’s a pretty one, I’ll grant you that.” 

Tom rolled his eyes and scrubbed at his hand. The old lady let out a groan as she made her way to her feet, hobbling over to where the blue-eyed boy was standing.

“You have the look, you know.” She whispered suggestively, peering into his face. “I can always tell when a man’s used an unforgivable.” A thick tongue darted out to moisten her bottom lip, which was shiny with spit. “How did it feel?”

Tom neatly side-stepped her advances, grimacing in distaste. “You have my thanks for helping me to mask my wand’s magic.” He said dryly, making his way over to the door. “I should like to go and rest now, as it’s been a rather tiresome evening.” 

Ramelda let out a high pitched giggle, eyes sparkling with glee. “Well I won’t keep you from your boy. And make no mention of it my little Riddle, Ramelda is always happy to help a wee boy cast his first unforgivable.”

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey just thought I'd clear up ages and why I keep referring to Tom as older, even though they're in the same year at Hogwarts.
> 
> Harry's birthday is 31st July. As this chapter is set around August, he's just turned 13.
> 
> Tom's birthday is 9th September (I know this is non canon but it fits better for me lol). He's still 13 but turning 14 in around a month.
> 
> Also I'm sorry for my delay in responding to comments - I've been suuuuuuuuper busy so will get around to it shortly. I've read every single one of them though - thank you again, I LOVE U GUYS T-T

The transition from the warm sludge of unconsciousness to waking was like swimming towards the surface from somewhere deep, deep underwater. Harry felt like he’d been staring at a pinprick of sky from the dark, thousands of miles below, for hours - frantically propelling his arms and trying to push his uncooperative body through the water towards it to no avail. But eventually, just when his lungs began to burn, the depth seemed to suddenly began to shrink, the surface rising up to meet him too fast for him to realise what was actually happening. And with a shuddering inhalation, breaking the stillness of the room, Harry was awake. 

His eyelids still felt astounding heavy, and the very act of sitting up in bed he had to fight for. But the more time he spent upright, shakily breathing in and out, the more his awareness started to filter back in. It was strange - despite the fading grogginess, he hadn’t felt this whole and full of energy in weeks.

Where they were resting on his knees, his hands started to tremble with fury as the memories began to seep back into his mind. The taste of blood bloomed delicately on his tongue as his canines pierced his bottom lip. It went unnoticed. 

He held no love for his last remaining relatives, that was no secret. His aunt and uncle were foul, bigoted people; Harry himself had sometimes dreamt about whipping out his wand and letting them know exactly how dangerous he could be. But the fact remained… Petunia had shared his mother’s blood. And although it was mostly masked by a hateful sneer and cold eyes, he sometimes caught a glimpse of his mother’s smile when she was talking to Dudley, or a flash of similarity in the delicate cradle of her hands as she poured the tea. They had been small refuges - but still a way for Harry to remember his mother and not feel quite so lonely. 

He felt bile rise up in the back of his throat, scorching his Adam’s apple. Tom had taken that away from him. Easily - putting Harry to sleep when he was screaming at him to stop, to just wipe their memories and leave - as easily as putting a toddler in time-out when they were throwing a tantrum. 

_For God’s sake. Dudley was thirteen years old._ The same age as Harry.

Although his eyes were burning he resolutely refused to let the tears spill out. He could feel his hands cramping from how tightly they were clenched, but the pain helped to ease some of the anger. It seemed like it was just loss after loss… but the ultimate betrayal was that it was mediated by Tom this time. The one person who could possibly understand the numbness at losing his parents, the one person who was meant to _help_ him. 

Closing his eyes for a beat, he let out a shaky breath. The only thing he could do now was deal with what had happened. With his eyes still closed, he tried to gather up all the hate and grief he could find and bury it somewhere deep. He kept pushing it down, compartmentalising until it was as subdued as he could make it, until he could open his eyes again. 

The bedroom was grand - far grander than his room in the Potter’s family home, that was for sure. The four-poster bed he was sitting up in was situated in the middle of a large room, with plush carpets and deep red curtains, half-drawn and letting streams of pale sunlight through. The furniture was all a dark cherry oak colour, intricately carved with representations of various flora and fauna intertwined. There were only a few pictures on the wall, mostly innocuous landscapes of a somewhat otherworldly feel. 

His detached categorising of the room was interrupted by a knock at the door. 

Harry felt his heart swoop and his pulse begin to jackhammer. He wasn’t ready to think about Tom, let alone look at him. His throat was dry and his teeth ground together unconsciously at the back of his mouth. He honestly didn’t know what the hell he was going to do.

There was a slight static that settled on his bare skin as Tom gracefully slid into the room, raising the hair on his arms. As always, the other boy looked perfectly put together in neatly ironed robes, dark blue eyes - so dark that Harry often mistook them for black - unreadable and riveted on Harry. Seeing his best friend was like a punch to the stomach. It was hard to reconcile this boy with the one who had so cruelly and mercilessly killed three people with the ease of swatting a fly. Tom’s tall, intimidating figure had always been a reassurance to Harry… now it felt looming and oppressive, especially in this unfamiliar setting.

To Harry’s shock, Tom cut straight across the room towards him, naturally invading his personal space and sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“You’re looking better.” He commented lightly, after a pause.

Harry shrank back as much as he could, legs still tangled in the sheets, green eyes hot with rage.

“Really, Tom?” He bit out, injected as much venom into the two words as he could. “That’s what you’re going with?” 

He felt sickened, shocked, and appalled all at once, blurring his thoughts and obfuscating his rationality. Tom was his best friend - and they both knew he meant more than just that label. How had Harry managed to miss this? The transition from the Tom that he’d known for over two years - the highly intelligent and cuttingly witty boy whom he’d saved the life of - to… this? Harry had known Tom had been spending more and more time researching things that were expressly forbidden to students - he’d obviously seen changes after the death of their parents, but he’d put it down to a coping mechanism, his own way of dealing with it. Of course the other boy was more withdrawn, he was grieving after all. Tom had always had a mean streak and needed someone (Harry) to lend perspective to his actions… but he’d never thought it could go _this_ far. Harry had never thought he was losing his _humanity_.

Tom frowned. “I’m glad to see I haven’t lost my touch.” He ignored Harry’s outburst, reaching out a finger to trace the now unbroken skin on Harry’s jaw.

Harry flinched and slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

Dark eyes narrowed with displeasure. The silence lay pregnant in the air, stretching out seemingly without end as both boys stared at each other.

“Would you not have done the same for me?” Tom asked quietly, eyes never straying from Harry’s.

Harry’s heart thudded slowly, a cold weight in his chest, pushing ice through his veins. He didn’t recognise the boy in front of him.

“I would have done whatever I could to get you back. But not that - never that.” Harry whispered.

An unfamiliar feeling was rising up in his throat, one which he recognised in the flashes of his memories from the night before.

He was scared.

Tom seemed to understand something had changed, had categorised the minute shift in Harry’s expression, the widening of his eyes. He leaned closer, grabbing Harry’s hands in his.

“ _Harry, it’s still me_.” He hissed in parseltongue, before switching back to english. “Don’t you see? I did it for you. They… they hurt you. You know I couldn’t let them live after that.” 

Tom’s words seemed to have their intended effect: they shifted the fear, sparking something white hot and desperate which rose up and tumbled out of Harry’s mouth like acid. 

“You didn’t do it for me! You did it for you.”

He let a small, bitter laugh escape. “Did you want to make me like you? Is that it? Now we’re both completely alone - is that what you wanted?” He wrenched his hands out of Tom’s cold grip and scrabbled out of the bed to stand, fists shaking by his sides.

The air in the room suddenly felt colder and more oppressive, as the Riddle heir rose. It was unnerving - he wasn’t used to being on this side of Tom’s magic. He could taste it, thick and cloying in the back of his mouth, a slight pressure at his temples. 

“Can you not see how they used your grief to their advantage?” His eyes flashed with anger. “Harry you can’t expect me to believe that there was no way of escaping that situation.” 

Tom positioned himself solidly between Harry and the door, stalking forward as he spoke.

“I did what I did precisely because of why you stayed - because you wanted it.”

Harry flinched.

“Don’t tell me that you didn’t think you deserved it - you took it as some form of indirect self-inflicted punishment for what happened to your parents. Those muggles were changing you, Harry. What happened to your fight? To your ‘self-preservation’?” Tom spat out the last word mockingly.

“People like that do not deserve to live. They certainly do not deserve the protection afforded to them by the sacrifice of good witches and wizards.” 

Harry recoiled, face an icy white. He didn’t want to think too closely about the meaning of Tom’s words.

“Careful there Tom. You’re beginning to sound like a certain wizard.” 

Tom bit out a hollow laugh as the gravity in the room seemed to double briefly. “I don’t believe that’s an apt comparison, and neither do you.”

Harry was so _tired_. He didn’t want to keep igniting these circular arguments - Tom would never see what he had done as wrong. He felt cast adrift. The worst thing about this whole situation was that he still had an undeniable urge to seek comfort in Tom, wanted to hear his inappropriately sarky comments as he helped Harry plan out whatever it was he was going to do next. Except in this case Tom was the problem. 

It made Harry feel lonelier than ever, and also a little disassociated - why on earth did he still feel like the other boy was his best friend? Why couldn’t he hate him? Yes he was bitterly bitterly angry and… lost and… grief-stricken, but there was no dark seed of hate. It’s absence worried him.

He unclenched his fists slowly, one finger at a time. 

“What the fuck is the point, Tom?” Harry asked tiredly, not really expecting an answer. “You’re all I have left now. And I’m not even sure if I have you anymore.”

Closing his eyes, Harry missed the slow smirk of satisfaction that spread across the older boy’s face. Tom long strides ate up the distance between them until his hands were gently cradling the bones of Harry’s shoulders. Distantly Harry realised he was wearing someone else’s pyjamas. Probably Tom’s; the boy had a penchant for silk. 

The position was uncomfortably close to the one they were in last time… when _that_ had happened. Harry’s cheeks grew warm even has he wilfully ignored the residual embarrassment. He wanted to shake the hands off (he could still remember them holding a wand, and the murmur of “ _Imperio_ ”), demand to leave… but where would he go? He quite literally had nowhere else, at least not until term started or Sirius returned from wherever it was he’d gone to do his research… but that was another few weeks away.

“Grindelwald, Harry. He is the point.” Tom’s fingers clenched down, surely digging bruises into Harry’s collarbone through the fine fabric. His eyes bore into Harry’s green ones, wide and unblinking. 

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, even as Tom’s strange fascination with the restricted part of the library started to make more sense. 

“He has to die. It would be justice - justice for our parents. And for however many other orphans he’s created.” 

Harry snorted in disbelief and amazement.

“So, what, you’re just going to kill the greatest dark wizard that’s ever lived? You - not even fourteen yet - are going to do what no other wizard or witch has managed thus far?”

“Of course not by myself.” Tom replied, swaying closer, snake-like, until his neck was resting on the air above Harry’s shoulder.

“I need you, Harry.” Tom murmured softly against the delicate shell of his ear, voice deep against the still of the room. 

_Shit_. He wasn’t used to this intimacy, it was causing his heart rate to pick up and his palms feel warm. Tom’s breath was warm, and Harry could feel each minute movement of his lips as he spoke. 

“I can’t do it without you.” 

He hadn’t heard Tom sound so vulnerable in years, not since the first time they met. 

“My core is dark. Yours is light. Don’t you see? We balance each other - it’s fate. I _need you_ to help me not fall too far.” 

A beat passed, Harry not knowing what to say, before— 

“ _He’s right, you know. About your cores.”_ Came a voice from Tom’s hand. Taking a shaky step back in surprise, Harry looked down into the face of his friend. 

He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten about her.

 _“Needle?”_ He hissed in disbelief. The pale green snake smoothly unwound herself from Tom’s fingers, slithering over to Harry. She’d grown bigger by at least double her original size, and was now the length of Harry’s entire arm. 

The reptile nosed towards the heat of Harry’s armpit, wrapping herself tightly around his upper arm. _“So you do remember my name.”_ The snake snarked. 

It was obvious that Tom had bought her out now to avoid elaborating on his previous sentence, hoping to distract Harry out of further questioning. Harry’s gaze turned accusingly on the other boy, trying to push down his emotions once more to find out more.

“What do you mean our “magical cores”?” 

Tom replied, eyes assessing Harry’s reaction. “It’s a simple enough spell to find out which way your magic leans towards; it’s useful to know which spells come more easily and which require more effort.” 

“And I’m… light?”

Tom nodded. Of course he’d already checked Harry’s as well - Harry wasn’t surprised.

“As I said, we work well together. In order to beat Grindelwald, as a fellow dark wizard, my dark magic must be stronger than his. Whereas your magic is the complete opposite - it can cancel his out, in a sense.” 

“Is this what you’ve been researching? When you disappeared for weeks?”

“Amongst other things.” Tom said vaguely.

Harry sighed. The dark pit of grief inside his stomach felt pleased at the thought of avenging his parents, even as his heart was screaming at him to leave this place, to forget Tom for good and to seek out someone older than him with more experience who could help him - someone like Dumbledore. But Grindelwald needed to be stopped, and even though Tom was thirteen… for some reason Harry believed he could do it. Tom didn’t act like someone who was almost fourteen. He acted like someone twice his age.

It would be so so easy to slip into seeing this as a coalition of necessity, to just take back his best friend and slip into their old relationship. But he could never overlook what Tom had done. It had changed the other boy in his eyes - his capacity to do such evil was irrevocable now. Tom was no longer his friend of three years, the boy who had protected him and rolled his eyes at Harry’s suggestions for adventures but still accompanied him anyway. 

They could no longer afford to be children. Maybe this had been inevitable?

Rearing back in horror, Harry choked as an old, gnarled woman suddenly appeared behind Tom, eyes glinting blackly in a leather-lined face. Although she was impeccably dressed, draped in an excessive amount of jewellery, she reeked of evil. 

To his merit, Tom didn’t react aside from sighing and stepping to the side. 

“Harry, meet my great-great Aunt, Ramelda.”

Harry gulped as the old woman’s face contorted into what Harry imagined was supposed to be a grin. 

“H-hello Ma’am.” He managed to get out, taken by surprise.

Her resemblance with Tom was incredibly subtle, but she shared the same dark blue eyes which flickered to black in low light. Although where Tom’s were almond shaped and closed off, hers were wide and manic… there was no rationality in the huge pools of her pupils. 

“Look at him, trembling like a little lamb!” She crooned with a slight french accent, lurching forward. Her hand rose, as if to run her spindly knuckles down the side of his cheek, but Tom intercepted. Taking a step forward, his tone of voice grew cold. Harry privately breathed a sigh of relief. He could tell her magic was dark and strong, even though she looked ancient. He didn’t want to offend her, especially if this was her home.

“I know I know, little Riddle. Don’t touch what doesn’t belong to you.” She parroted, pouting, eyes never leaving Harry.

Harry laughed a little at the ridiculousness of that statement, which cut off when her eyes flitted to his. Her mouth stretched again, a gash of red against the wrinkles of her jaw.

“Oh you poor thing.” She said, almost pityingly, her voice eerily soft and girl-like. “You have so much to learn.”

“Can we help you with something Aunt Ramelda?” Tom asked politely, raising an arched brow.

She chuckled, and her frenetic countenance seemed to fade slightly, as she shrunk in on herself.

“No, no, I just came by to say hello to Harry here. I’ll be stepping out to acquire some ingredients, but will be back within the hour.” Her head titled to one side. 

“Be good, won’t you boys?”

Harry jerked his head in acquiescence. He felt warily on edge - there was something so not right about the old lady. He looked at Tom, who seemed unimpressed… which in itself was impressive. Although in his defence, he’d had a couple of months at least to get used to her. Harry would too, he decided.

“A bientôt my little doves.” The old lady hobbled past, a whiff of something sickly sweet permeating in the air as she passed, like rotten fruit.

Harry couldn’t relax until the door closed behind her. He turned to face Tom, quizzical and more than a little freaked out.

“She makes potions and sells them to the magic community around here,” he explained, frowning. “Although I would not condone taking anything she gives you.” 

Harry nodded - he hadn’t planned to. 

Tom suddenly seemed to notice Harry’s lack of proper attire. “I’ll leave you here to get changed and meet you downstairs - there should be clothes in the drawer that fit you.”

He nodded again, watching as Tom strode out of the room, following his relative. 

Feeling emotionally drained, Harry walked over to the huge chest of drawers, tugging open a couple and retrieving some light trousers and a shirt. He recognised them as Tom’s from about a year ago, which was a little annoying as he knew they were too small for Tom now.

Harry got changed, leaving the pyjamas by the pillows on the bed. Bemused, he caught sight of his glasses on the side table and slid them on. _That was much better._ Now he could see more than three feet in front of himself. His eyesight wasn’t as bad as it used to be - he’d been taking potions at Hogwarts to improve it, but after a few months without them it had started to worsen again. 

Pulling open the door, he cast one last look around the room, before wandering out onto the landing. He walked for some time, past silently staring portraits, until he got to the main staircase. The house wasn’t huge - not as big as some of the opulent mansions he’d been forced to visit. It was still pretty big though, and surprisingly dusty he discovered, running his finger along the bannister. 

Harry made his way downstairs, aimlessly wandering until he found a door which opened into a large greenhouse, stretching endlessly out for what seemed like miles.

 _This must be where she grows her ingredients_. Harry had no desire to stay in here - quite frankly he wasn’t sure if it was safe or if he was even allowed to be in here. He shuffled past rows of towering green plants, some spotted with brightly coloured flowers, others sprouting intricate fern-like leaves, desperately trying not to touch anything. Head whipping from side-to-side, he managed to make out a door to his left, which seemed to open out to the rest of the garden. As he shouldered past a particularly orange-looking plant, it seemed to sneeze out white dust all over his shoulder. _Gross._

The air in the garden wasn’t nearly as wet or warm, and Harry breathed in deeply, enjoying the feel of the breeze on his face. 

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, trying to regain his sense of stability, but something made him open his eyes. Tom was silently watching him from a few paces away, a plate with a huge sandwich balancing on it in his hand. Harry didn’t question how he’d known he was out here.

“I thought you might be hungry.” The other boy called out.

Harry hadn’t really thought about food, but as soon as he did the hunger came rushing back. He and Tom made their way over to the wrought iron garden table in the closest corner of the garden, sitting in the sunlight on the chairs. Nodding in thanks, Harry grabbed the sandwich, demolishing it in under a minute. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted. Tom looked a mix between vaguely alarmed and mildly disgusted at the pace at which Harry had consumed the food.

When he’d finished, they both sat in silence for a minute or two, listening to the birds. It was incongruously peaceful in light of what had transpired earlier. 

Harry had a moment of hysterical amusement. He was sitting eating lunch with the boy who has just orphaned him. 

Tom seemed to catch on that Harry’s thoughts were taking a turn for the worse. 

“I wanted to talk to you about something.” He spoke, interrupting the silence and Harry’s silent panic.

Harry turned to look at him, trying to ignore the way the light was illuminating the blue in his eyes. 

“Yes?”

In response, Tom folded back the sleeve of his left shirt arm, displaying some kind of tattoo on the inside of his wrist.

“What is it?” Harry asked, confused.

“It’s what I’ve been working on this summer.” Tom explained, the tinge of excitement in his voice only noticeable to Harry because of his familiarity with the other boy. 

Harry stared down at the older boy’s pale wrist, marred by a black scorch-mark in the shape of a snake writhing out of a skull. 

_Who_ was _the boy sitting in front of him? How could this be Tom - he seemed so different from a few months ago._

“Well it’s a bit maudlin.”

Tom gave him an annoyed look. “It’s supposed to represent how parseltongue ties us together, and how you saved my life when we first met.”

Harry just hummed, furrowing his brows. “But why? What is it?” He asked, genuinely quite curious.

“It’s a little bit like a magical tattoo,” Tom explained. “But it works in a pair.” 

Harry furrowed his brow in confusion and waited for a better explanation. When no more answers were forthcoming, he realised what the other boy meant. “What, and you want me to have one too?” 

“Yes. It will definitely be useful in the future - this way I’ll know where you are at all times, and _vice versa_ , and we can communicate through it if we need to.”

Maybe he could play this to his advantage. He was slowly realising that leaving Tom alone wasn’t a possibility. a) Tom would probably not let that happen, and b) the more Harry discovered of his best friend’s (?) plan to defeat Grindelwald… the more he was convinced Tom couldn’t do it without him. And if he tried to… well, if Tom had cast his first unforgivable aged thirteen, how many more would be cast before the wizard could be defeated? How many more would suffer, even if it was justified? Hell - what would that do to _Tom_? The older boy had started on a slippery slope, and Harry would try to help slow him down - but would not get dragged down it with him.

It wasn’t just that, a part of him admitted. He wanted revenge. For his parents, for himself. He could go along with it for that, but he would never trust the other boy.

“I feel like thirteen is a little young for a tattoo”. 

Tom rolled his eyes. “It’s dark magic Harry. You spell it on.”

Harry bit his lip. “Are you sure this works?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I designed it myself.” Tom added in, snippily. 

“Ok… but is this really necessary?” Harry asked, turning over the idea in his head. He could see the benefits of being able to keep an eye on Tom… but what would people at school say when they saw it? Surely it would raise more than a few questions.

Tom rolled his eyes. “Yes. I meant what I said earlier. I’ll always keep you safe - and this is the easiest way.”

Harry nodded. He supposed it was easy enough to affix a glamour over it if he needed to - it was just a small mark, the size of his thumb. He held out his wrist to Tom, who looked horribly pleased.

With no hesitation, or warning, Tom pointed the tip of his wand at the fragile skin, whispering under his breath. Harry couldn’t catch all the words, but when they stopped the burning started. Crying out in shock he tried to pull his wrist away but Tom held it tightly in a vice-like grip. Enraptured, he stared down at Harry, eyes alight with some unknown emotion as the black symbol began to emerge from the reddened patch of skin. 

For a brief second Harry felt a movement in his neck, something wet and cold, before the burning simmered down to an uncomfortable twinge. 

“Fuck, why didn’t you tell me that was going to hurt?!” He demanded angrily, his voice breaking the spell over Tom, who let go of his wrist.

“It was better to just do it.” Tom scoffed, stashing his wand in his robes and glancing down at his own wrist, where an identical sigil resided. 

He was pleased indeed: this was all going according to plan.


	9. Nine

Every time Harry’s sleeve pulled up, he noticed an odd expression flit across Tom’s face. 

At first he thought he was just seeing things but it literally happened Every. Single. Time. He could be doing something as mundane as reaching for the salt, and suddenly Tom’s eyes would glaze slightly, vision intent on Harry’s wrist. Harry first thought was that Tom was enamoured with the physical proof of the trust Harry had placed in him, despite of what had happened… but now… now he was starting to think that it was a little darker than that. 

Tom had always liked marking his possessions. 

To test this theory (and his own curiosity), for a short while Harry deliberately tried to keep it covered, wearing long sleeved shirts even when it was boiling outside. In response, Tom had begun to initiate those little touches again: the hugs, the almost-but-not-quite hand holding. In a strange way, Harry counted this as a success, although he wasn’t prepared to think too much about that.

There was a new addition to these brief contacts now: whenever Tom would grip Harry's wrist to tug him somewhere, his cool fingers would slip to the underside of this wrist and his thumb would stroke at where the veins were dyed black with Tom’s design. It threw Harry off, making his pulse race wildly in his ribcage, and he'd often forget what he was saying, flushing in annoyance.

He sighed internally. That was probably why Tom did it.

The mark had remained slightly inflamed and uncomfortable for the following few days, but after that it was like he hardly noticed it. Although it was still a little odd to see flashes of ink now and again, whenever he looked down at his hands.

He and Tom had already discussed exactly how they were going to keep it hidden and unnoticed in a few weeks when they returned to school. He'd been practising the spell each day, making sure he could recite it fluently and quickly. Tom could even do it without using his wand at this point, although no matter how hard Harry tried he couldn’t get it to work without his. It was extremely frustrating but then again, Harry consoled himself, Tom was a natural at the more complicated spells.

Harry spent the next couple of weeks exploring the French “cottage” (as it had first been described to him). It was nothing at all like a cottage, except for maybe it’s age and the front part of the house which was well-maintained and more cosy. Instead, the rest of the mansion seemed to have a ceaseless amount of dusty rooms, locked doors and hidden away corners, all untouched for years and marinating in the dark. 

Ramelda, Tom’s creepy relative, wasn’t as difficult to deal with as he had originally thought. Harry wasn’t sure if Tom had said something to her, or if she was just that busy, but he hardly saw her. She would insist on dining together for supper twice a week, during which she would slurp up her dinner languidly, eyes beady and assessing. Harry hated it, but Tom had just frowned and looked a little irritated when he bought it up, stating blankly that he’d just have to struggle though - there was nothing he could do as it was her house. And really, Harry though miserably to himself, spending one hour with the old woman for dinner twice a week was nothing. It was actually kind of interesting listening to the conversations between her and Tom - even if most of it just went over his head. In fact, sometimes he thought they were having conversations entirely in metaphors as half of their sentences didn’t seem to make any sense. But little by little he found himself mopping up stray bits of information, about entirely random topics. 

He had also learnt that the greenhouse he had stumbled though on the day he first woke up was completely out of bounds. The following morning Ramelda had sidled up to him in that creepy habit she had of seeming to slink out of the shadows, and ran her spindly fingers along the back of his neck, whispering that it would be wise not to go in there again. Obviously, he had jumped a mile, heart beating wildly, and let out a little scream. 

He was sure he saw Tom laugh out of the corner of his eye, the prick.

The french countryside in the summer was beautiful enough to make up for it though, and a fresh change from the Dursley’s dingy terraced house. The kitchen pantry seemed to never run out of food - freshly baked baguettes and huge sweet tomatoes, fluffy croissants and creamy milk. Harry hadn’t eaten so well since term ended in July, and found himself filling out a little, putting back the weight he’d lost on his slender frame. 

Together the boys explored the surrounding land, including a lonely little stream near the house, Tom preferring to read whatever his current book was in the shade of the trees, whilst Harry tried to swim, letting out a shocked gasp at the cold water and promptly getting out and huddling under a thick towel, before convincing himself it hadn’t been that cold and repeating his mistake.

They were trudging back to the house one of these occasions, sniping at each other, when it happened. Harry had been trying to convince Tom to join him in the water for the last week, to no avail and had resorted to pleading, a course of action which usually worked on Tom. Tom, unfortunately, was having none of it, and finally snapped and told Harry to stop pestering him, and that he was going indoors. Harry was trailing along morosely behind him, kicking a pebble.

As they reached the doorstep of the back door, which led out from the front kitchen, Tom halted suddenly. Harry, looking forlornly back from where they had come from, didn’t notice and smacked into his back with a soft exhalation of breath.

“Tom?” Harry asked surprisedly, regaining his balance by grabbing onto Tom’s shoulder. 

Tom turned around, and Harry’s eyes were drawn to the creamy white envelope pinched between his first two fingers. Tom’s eyes were running over Harry’s face.

“A letter for you.” He said, holding it out. He looked residually irritated.

Harry reached out, noticing the curves of emerald green ink that spelt out his name, which seemed somewhat familiar. His dark eyebrows furrowed as he ripped open the envelope, eyes greedily casting over the paper until he reached the bottom.

“Who’s it from?” Tom asked, trying and failing to sound distinctly uninterested.

Harry gave him a grim smile, reading the letter from the top. “Dumbledore… it’s about the Dursley’s.” 

 

_Dear Harry,_

_My dear boy, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this but I’m afraid I have yet more bad news, concerning your aunt and uncle._

_Hogwarts was informed on Thursday of their passing, in your Surrey home. Depth of detail would seem unnecessary, however the ministry has informed me that muggle police have closed the case as a tragic incident of domestic violence._

_Your cousin Dudley has been graciously taken in by his father’s side of the family, and I’m sure he would appreciate a visit from you when you feel ready._

 

Harry’s mouth dropped open. He turned to look at Tom. “He’s alive?”

“Who exactly are you referring to?” Tom asked. He didn’t sound surprised.

“…Dudley.” Harry choked out. It was funny - no matter how many times Harry had wished his cousin would cease to exist, he could help but feel a wash of relief at knowing he was ok. Well. As ok as one could be in those circumstances. 

His relief promptly turned to confusion.

“W-Why didn’t you kill him?” He asked, not able to look at Tom’s face.

Tom’s eyes deliberately softened, and he lowered his voice to a soft, vaguely appalled murmur, adding on a thick layer of incredulity. “He’s a _child_ , Harry.” 

Harry felt lost - this was out of character for the new Tom. He’d just assumed the older boy had massacred them all… he never thought he’d be humane enough to care about age. 

He stifled a laugh. By not killing his 13 year old cousin, he was labelling Tom as humane. _What fucked up point of referencing was he using?_

He swallowed the lump in his throat, and nodded, continuing to read.

 

_I apologise for not getting in contact sooner; your location was unknown for longer than I would have liked as nobody seemed to know quite where you had gone. One of your professors had the idea that you could be with Tom in France, however it was a few days before we were able to track down the exact village._

_Unfortunately, we have been unable to prevent the newspapers from publishing about the incident, as at first it was assumed that what happened was some kind of magical attack._

__Grindelwald, Harry thought grimly. __

_You were incredibly lucky, Harry, to leave when you did. I should like to see you in my office at the beginning of term so we can discuss this in more detail._

_I wish you all the best in France._

_Sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

 

There was something else in the envelope, Harry realised, reaching in and withdrawing a page of newspaper from where it was tucked inside. He blanched as he unfolded it. _THE BOY WHO LIVED_ was sprawled across the header, accompanied by his horrific school photo taken two years ago; he looked like a scared little kid, floppy hair curtaining his eyes. 

He let out a little groan. _How on earth had the Daily Prophet managed to get ahold of that?_

Hastily, Harry stuffed it back into the envelope, but it was too late - Tom’s eyes had hardened as he caught sight of the title. He held out his hand expectantly and Harry sighed, wordlessly passing it over. 

Harry stayed silent as Tom scanned the letter, mouth turning downwards as the other boy let out a little huff of laughter as he unfolded the newspaper piece.

Harry head was filled with questions: why had he left Dudley alive? And why did the muggle police think this was a case of domestic abuse gone wrong? But the words just wouldn’t slip out of his mouth. Frustrated, he scrubbed his face with his hands, pressing down harshly on his temples to alleviate the slight headache he was getting.

 

 

 

 

 

A few days passed before Harry realised something was wrong with Needle. The little - although she wasn’t so little anymore really - snake usually coiled up in bed with Harry at night, wriggling into his warmth and providing a comforting weight across his side. Harry was still sleeping in Tom’s room, on the other boy’s insistence, whereas Tom himself was in the room next door. It felt strange not being able to hear his quiet deep breaths as he fell asleep, and the silence felt too loud: Harry just couldn’t quite get used to it. For the first couple of nights, no matter what he did he couldn’t fall asleep; his nightmares were too visceral and real, just a repeat of that night running over and over again, but occasionally running past where his memories ended. As the week went by, the dreams extended every time he closed his eyes, until they were going on to show in terrible detail exactly how his uncle killed his aunt, getting more and more bloody until Harry woke up with a scream dying in his throat. 

Eventually Harry was so tired from the lack of sleep that on one memorable morning he stumbled down the last few stairs and (to his mortification) fell flat on his face. Tom had finally snapped, yanking him up and muttering that he’d ‘had enough of this ridiculous behaviour.’ 

For the next few nights, Tom would silently slip into Harry’s bed, ignoring his protests that he wasn’t a kid anymore and that he was fine sleeping by himself. They would never really touch, in large part due to Harry’s awkwardness - he would shuffle over to the opposite end of the king-sized bed and lie there, horribly aware of the other boy’s proximity. But Tom’s warmth soaking through the sheets and the way he would occasionally shift in his sleep were enough to clear the fear and grief Harry sometimes felt late at night. The nightmares stopped. 

Anyway: Needle was missing. 

He hadn’t seen his serpentine friend in a couple of days. She would usually disappear during the day, entertaining herself or, Harry assumed, playing with Nagini… _if snakes even played that was_ , Harry mused. If she’d had a big meal and needed to digest (Harry found the lump protruding from her stomach disgusting and tried his best to ignore it) she would occasionally spend a couple of days coiled around his neck or wrapped around his arm, napping. 

He’d woken up early one morning, consumed with a sudden need to find her. The room was dark and warm, and he could just make out the hazy outline of Tom, still sleeping. Ignoring the pull to stay in bed where it was cosy, he slipped out of the covers, holding his breath and trying to make as little noise as possible. Tugging on a robe he exited the room, closing the door softly behind him, and tiptoed down the stairs. For some inexplicable reason, he felt a pull towards the back of the house. 

According to the clock on the wall, it was just coming up to six in the morning - even Tom didn’t usually wake up until 7. Stopping sleepily outside a large wooden door at the very end of the corridor, he pushed his hair away from his face, trying to wake up a little. He wasn’t sure what compelled him to stop outside of this room in particular - it was one of Ramelda’s and therefore out of bounds. He couldn't shake the odd feeling this was where his pet had wandered off to, and this is where he would find her. His mother had always told him to trust his gut. Harry shoved the thought away, using the entirely healthy mechanism of coping with his grief that he'd been employing all summer.

He tried the handle, flinching slightly as the cold metal burned his hand. To his surprise, it wasn’t locked like it usually was, and the door swung open silently on well-oiled hinges. The muted, dusty portraits in the hall slumbered on. Harry felt his heart rate pick up as he peered around the door - he shouldn’t be here and he knew it. 

Inside, the oil lamps were throwing out the bare minimum of light, casting disturbing shadows on the wall. It took a while for his eyes to adjust but as they did he could begin to make out pale walls stuffed from ceiling to floor with lopsided bookshelves, and a long oak table with its entire surface littered with strange objects, sheafs of paper and dirty crockery. Harry felt the hair on the back of his neck raise as he spied a jar, its murky contents definitely resembling the suspended shape of a frog bisected neatly down the middle. _This must be some kind of study?_ He didn’t know. Towards the back of the room was a thin strip of light, beaming out from a another, smaller door at the far end.

Harry crept closer, each step perfectly positioned to avoid the mess on the hard wooden floor. In his head he prayed to whatever deity there was that Tom’s creepy relative wouldn’t be in there, and was instead fast asleep in some far away part of the house. His heart sank as a clattering sound came from inside the room - she was most definitely present and awake. 

He paused outside the door, waiting a beat to see if he could hear anything else. There was a heart wrenchingly awful few seconds of silence and then he heard the scream. 

Panic forgotten, Harry rushed in, throwing open the door and stopping up short in horror. Needle was weighed down on a table with heavy books, thrashing as much as she could. Tiny beads of brown blood were dripping from her face, tongue protruded rigidly in pain. 

“ _What has she done?_ ” Harry gasped in a hiss, eyes shooting to the hunched over form of the old woman.

Ramelda grinned at his expression, turning around fully and raising her long metal tweezers. He felt sick as he realised. Needle’s sightless right eye was delicately grasped between the prongs like a bead about to be threaded on a bracelet. He felt fury steal over him, filtering through his veins and making him forget his fear. 

“ _Master…_ ” Needle hissed weakly.

The old witch’s sweet smile never wavered. “Oh?” She hummed in mock surprise. “I didn’t realise she was one of yours.” 

Harry’s expression was thunderous, he could feel his rage filling up the room like clouds rolling in before a thunderstorm. His neck ached fiercely for one brief moment before, without warning, the books crushing Needle’s tail flew directly towards Ramelda, slamming though the air. Her smile faded as she drew her wand. Muttering under her breath, she managed to deflect most of them but for a heavy hardback which glanced off her shoulder, making her cry out. 

Pointing her wand towards him, her eyes flashed an unnatural green. “Careful there boy. You may be Tom’s but my patience only extends so far.” She hissed, eyes narrowing. 

“I don’t care.” He bit out hotly, stepping closer. “How _could you_? Needle is my friend, not some… some _ingredient_ to be exploited for your stupid potions.” The words burst out of him. On the table, free from the weight of the books Needle’s body started to squirm, working out her crushed muscles. 

Ramelda’s mouth opened - to reply or to cast something, Harry didn’t know which - but before she could utter a single word, a hand clamped down on Harry’s shoulder and his view was obstructed by a larger body stepping in front of him. 

_Tom?_

The shock seemed to break whatever Harry had been doing to the room, as suddenly everything seemed brighter, and even the air seemed to become lighter. He grit his teeth, willing that oppressive power to come back. 

“Get out of the way.” He snarled, trying to step out from behind Tom, who looked down at him with a strange, heated expression. His eyes obsessively charting the other boy’s anger, Tom stepped aside, oddly obedient. 

“She took Needle’s eye.” Tom assessed cooly, voice like dry ice, as his eyes flitted from the witch’s fingers to the snake on the table.

Ramelda said nothing, watching the two boys. Her wand hadn’t lowered - if anything she seemed even more on edge.

Harry was shaking, wishing he’d had the foresight to bring his wand with him. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Tom could deal with his great Aunt or whatever she was, Harry had more important things to deal with right now - like his familiar. He strode over to the table and cradled the snake in his hands, gently wiping away the tiny droplets of blood with the edge of his tshirt. 

He couldn’t keep the anger down; his glare was as venomous as he could make it. “You’ll pay for this.” He didn’t know where the icy promise in his voice came from - it didn’t sound like him - but as he spoke he realised he meant every word. 

_An eye for an eye._ He thought distantly.

She sneered at him, spittle flecking her pale lips. “Don’t forget, young Potter, that you’re staying in _my_ house.”

At that, Tom seemed to have had enough, interjecting smoothly. “And is this how you treat a guest? Mutilate his familiar?” He walked up to Harry and Needle, looking back over his shoulder.

“I thought I made it clear that Harry was not to be played with." He sounded completely calm as he spoke. "And as we both know, I am not in the habit of repeating myself, Aunt.”

It was odd to witness, but the old witch seemed to visibly shrink in on herself at Tom’s words. He’d spoken pretty lightly, but she seemed… scared? 

Ramelda waited a beat, holding Harry’s gaze and letting him see the shadowed hate there, before her eyes flitted back to Tom’s and she nodded shallowly. Head high, she swept out of the room, jewellery clanking as she walked. It was only when the door closed behind her that Harry realised she’d taken the snake’s eye with her. 

The reality of Needle’s mutilation made his eyes burn as he looked down at her. She seemed frail, tail moving slowly as Harry’s warmth bled into her. She was hissing weakly, and even Tom looked sorry as he quickly muttered a spell to heal the bleeding eye. His hand once again found Harry’s shoulder and squeezed it, this time in comfort. 

“ _How could she?_ ” Harry repeated mournfully, looking up at the other boy. Tom flinched slightly at the moroseness in Harry’s expression, and withdrew his wand from the pocket of his robe. 

“ _I’m sorry._ ” He said quietly, eyes meeting Harry’s before breaking eye contact to study the snake. After a pause, he frowned slightly. “ _I think I can fix this._ ”

Harry stared at the other boy, feeling a bud of hope begin to unfurl in his chest, and briefly nodded his head in acquiescence. 

“Please.”

Tom’s lips seemed to almost turn up at the corners, but then he walked in front of Harry and stared down at the snake thoughtfully. 

“I can’t just _reconjure an eye_ … but I might be able to make something work.” He muttered.

Casting around the room, his eyes settled on a bowl in the corner. Tom walked over, and crouched down, sifting through it to withdraw a small red marble. He felt the weight in his hand before walking back over and comparing the size to Needle’s remaining eye. Satisfied they were of a similar size, he placed it in the palm of his hand and withdrew his wand.

The spell was a long one - well, relatively long - and took at least a minute of incantation. The clear red marble began to turn cloudy, and what looked like a mini hurricane appeared in the centre, whirling before dissipating, leaving a slitted black pupil. Gently, Tom pushed the marble, or whatever it was now, into Needles brusied socket. The pupil seemed to vibrate hotly for a second before moving in accordance with the other eye.

Harry peered down, inspecting it. It looked like a normal serpent eye aside from the murky, unnatural red colour. 

“ _How is it?_ ” Tom murmured to Needle, gently stroking her head with the backs of his fingers. Harry’s heart did something weird.

The snake seemed to perk up a little sliding around Tom’s fingers.

“ _I can…see._ ” She said, testing it out.

“ _Is it as good as before?_ ” Harry asked, dreading the answer.

“ _No. But good._ ” 

Harry breathed a sigh of relief, and before he knew it he had jumped on the other boy, wrapping him up in a hug and squeezing him.

“Thank you. Tom - thank you.” Tom seemed startled for a brief second, before returning the hug with just as much bruising force. 

Harry felt himself blushing after a few seconds, and released the other boy… but Tom held on for a beat longer. Just enough for Harry to become uncomfortably aware of the strength in his wiry frame. It was strange - Harry never really saw Tom do much exercise, he definitely wasn’t into Quidditch or anything. In fact, now that he thought about it, Tom would probably make a fantastic seeker if he tried. 

Harry swallowed hard in awkwardness, and their close proximity must have allowed Tom to hear as he reluctantly released his grip on the other boy. Sighing, he suddenly felt exhausted again - an emotional hangover. Needle was still shocked and sluggish, staying horribly still where she'd ended up lying on Harry’s collarbones. 

Tom blinked. “Let’s go back to bed.”

Harry nodded, allowing himself to be led out of the creepy laboratory and back down the hall towards their bedroom. (‘ _Their’_ bedroom? He distantly wondered. When did it become _their_ bedroom as opposed to _Harry’s_ bedroom?)

 

 

 

 

 

He didn’t see Ramelda at all for the next week, which was probably for the best. He still had this dark feeling coiled up in his chest whenever he thought about the old hag. Harry was hard pressed to let Needle out of his sight - she lounged, coiled around Nagini and then Harry, happy for Harry and Tom to feed them whatever they’d bought from the butchers. Harry didn’t mind her laziness - she deserved the rest. 

The boys were due back at Hogwarts in a few days - a fact which Harry had mixed feelings about. On one hand, he was excited to see his friends again; he’d exchanged maybe one letter with Draco and Ollie, just to reassure them that he was ok as they’d seen the papers. He was kind of ready to go back to that comforting structure of lessons, mealtimes and bedtimes, the closest semblance of normality that was achievable these days. But, he allowed himself to think quietly, he would miss this time spent alone with Tom, doing whatever they pleased. He never grew tired of the other boy’s company, and strangely he found Tom’s mini lectures on whatever it was that he had been reading pretty interesting - when he knew that if it was coming from a teacher it would be anything but. 

The only notable thing to happen was the day before they were planning to take the floo to King’s Cross. Around late afternoon, Tom informed him that he had a meeting with someone in one of the drawing rooms, and that he’d be unavailable for a couple of hours. 

Naturally, telling Harry this just meant that he had already prepared himself for a solid afternoon of eavesdropping, curiosity burning.

When the knock on their front door came, Harry was sitting in one of the cosier library rooms, sheltering from the heat outside and trying (failing) to entertain himself. Gingerly, he poked his head out, watching as a huge blonde man in his twenties was led in by the house elf. He was wearing formal ministry robes, but looked pretty junior, in Harry’s mind. 

Annoyingly, Tom seemed to know him well, although Harry had never heard him mentioned until that morning. Harry mentally shrugged… Tom was always writing letters, he was probably just one of the recipients. 

Tom and the stranger walked around the corner, disappearing from Harry’s view. They were quite a funny pair - one towering over the other, but Tom still walked with his chin up and a rather proud stance, like he owned the place… _which he kind of did, actually_ Harry remembered.

 _I’m going to respect Tom’s privacy_. Harry told himself, forcefully shutting the door and picking up the (incredibly dull) book he’d picked up ten minutes earlier. 

_I’m going to sit here and read this great book on…_ He glanced at the cover. _Flobberworms_. 

In the background, the grandfather clock ticked. 

Harry trained his eyes on the top of the page (page 2).

The clock ticked. 

He read the first few words for the fourth time.

 _Bugger that._ Harry thought, standing up and closing the book with a vindictive snap. Feeling slightly irresponsible, he stole down the corridor, following the muted voices he could hear from one of the rooms near the front of the house.

He crouched down in front of the door, ears straining to hear the conversation. Snatches of sentences floated out. 

“…For another three years. Keep making note of every time it happens, it will be useful in the prosecution later.”

“Of course I will.” A chuckle, which didn’t belong to Tom. “He has no idea, the old fool, that…”

Harry inched closer, trying to hear more.

“Master Harry?” He didn’t see the house elf come up behind him and jumped suddenly as the old creature spoke, losing his balance and toppling over against the door, which (to Harry’s horror) thudded open with a slight creak.

 _Crap!_ He panicked, regaining his balance and frantically backing away on his bottom. It was too late.

“Just come in Harry.” Tom sounded a little exasperated.

Harry flushed, cheeks on fire at being caught. “Sorry.” He mumbled guilty, slipping into the room. 

The ministry official simply raised an eyebrow and continued sipping his tea. Although Tom had sounded pretty emotionless, Harry could see a slight crease around his eyes, annoyingly indicating that Harry had amused him in some way. 

“Join us.” Tom waved his hand at an empty seat, snapping his wand at the teapot which began to pour more tea into a delicate china cup, unaided. He nodded to the blonde man. “Harry, this is Albert Vineson.”

Albert Vineson set his teacup down and lumbered to his feet, taking Harry’s hand and giving it a good, strong shake. Harry tried to prevent his body from jerking up and down along with his hand.

“A pleasure.” He murmured, blue eyes assessing. He was insanely built, tall, and classically handsome with a straight nose, parted blonde hair and large shoulders. 

Harry’s cheeks went even pinker as he mumbled a reply.

Tom cleared his throat. “Albert is currently a junior aide to the minister.” He mentioned casually, eyes narrowing until Harry retreated to his seat and picked up his tea.

Harry’s eyes widened with surprise. _What on earth was a wannabe politician doing here?_

There could really only be one explanation: Tom was beginning.

 

 

 

 

 


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Again - it's been a while, but I've recently come into a great deal of free time so I'll probably be writing with a little more frequency now.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the chapter, please let me know what you think!

The train’s wheels hummed softly under Harry’s feet, a sound which he’d begun to associate with the thin wings of excitement fluttering at the base of his stomach. Like usual, he and the other boys had a coach to themselves, and Harry was sitting across the full length of the seats, legs propped up in front of him, taking in the beautiful heather-washed hills running past the window. 

As his eyes tracked back and forth across the blur of scenery Harry found his thoughts drifting back to his conversation with Albert.

After his deeply humiliating entrance into the room, he’d sat stiffly stewing in embarrassment, enveloped in a large armchair listening to the other two talk. When he’d said Tom was beginning, he hadn’t been wrong. Harry was well aware of what Tom’s long term goal was - it was something they had discussed more than once whilst down at the stream. In Tom’s opinion (and Harry kind of agreed), the Ministry was corrupted, rotting from the inside. 

Harry had listened carefully and silently to Albert’s increasingly incensed rants: the old institution was laden down with mindless bureaucracy, too lax in its approach to Grindelwald, too scared of collateral damage. Too scared of making any strong moves that would cause public outrage or dissent. 

Harry and Tom had traded a muted glance. He could tell they were thinking the same thing - it was this kind of indecisive weakness that had enabled something as terrible as the deaths of their parents. 

In Albert’s opinion, the cancer growing in the government needed to be cut out and replaced by people who weren’t scared to make moves and actionable directives. To Tom’s delight, Harry had broken his silence to point out that this was uncomfortably utilitarian (a word he’d picked up when he’d heard it during one of Ramelda’s dinners). On that note, Tom had to stop it with the incentives - whenever he got that proud glint in his eye that said for _once_ he thought Harry wasn’t a complete idiot, it made Harry want to learn even more... it was mildly addictive. 

But then he’d then had to sit there like a fool for a good twenty minutes, listening to Tom’s spontaneous speech on consequentialism and his argument with Albert over Kantian ethics, trying to suppress the need to interrupt every minute to ask a question. Harry wasn’t sure he understood even half of what they had said.

But it was nice to see the other boy passionate again.

Anyway. Harry wasn’t an idiot - he shut up and listened to what followed. Listened and learned: Albert seemed to be going along with this because he shared their opinions, but Harry still couldn’t work out why a twenty something Ministry official would follow along with the ideas of a boy likely a full decade his junior. In other words: he was suspicious.

When he’d asked Tom later on, the other boy had explained. Albert had recently lost his younger brother to Grindelwald - a grief understood and shared, but also capitalised on. Tom had been responsible for the creation of an article ripping the Ministry to shreds about their lack of a response to such an event (publish through other channels of course); Albert reached out to his pseudonym and, after careful consideration, Tom had decided to share some of his ideas.

When following Tom’s advice actually seemed to work in terms of Albert’s career progression, and how well he was received by his more senior colleagues, the trust seemed to have solidified.

Harry was surprised that he’d never heard anything about the blonde young man, although it seemed like their correspondence was in pretty early stages; he thought they’d been in touch for only a few months.

Albert and Tom had gone on to discuss methods of recruiting others sympathetic to their cause - Tom would see who he could fish out at Hogwarts, and Albert likewise at the Ministry - and their strategy for establishing contacts in the media. As far as Harry could tell, this amounted to a lot of parties, a prospect which Albert didn't seem to be too dismayed about. Intel gathering too: Tom was already collating a folder full of information on specific key players. Harry was somewhat surprised... Tom seemed to have been doing a lot during his isolation at school. It turned out, he thought slightly bitterly, that he hadn’t been checking up on Tom quite as well as he thought he had.

Harry was snapped out of his musings by a brief purple flash as the train passed a patch of flowers. They covered the side of the hill for a couple of seconds, their brightness in stark contrast to the grey skies.

He glanced to his left, looking over at a haughtily napping Draco, silver hair spilling uncharacteristically messily over his forehead, and Oliver, nose buried deep in his book. He let his eyes linger there for a moment before he inwardly heaved a quiet sigh. His gaze fell on the other boy occupying the carriage, eyes involuntarily seeking him out like always. Although they were trying to pull together a proper plan - an actual, tangible plan, which somehow was going to impact not only the ministry but how the entire wizarding world was run - it was so easy to just imagine they were normal boys, riding the train back to school after a summer with their parents, where their only worry was homework, spells and detention. 

Harry blinked hard. There was no point thinking like that, he told himself a little angrily. Life wasn’t that simple anymore. His head felt heavy with the effort of compartmentalising. 

_I should go and stretch my legs_ , Harry decided. 

He got to his feet gingerly, shrugging off Tom’s worn-soft slytherin scarf that he’d been using as a makeshift blanket and feeling the weight of the other boy’s stare settle on him.

“Bathroom.” He said quietly by means of explanation, slipping out the carriage without looking back and quickly sliding closed the door behind him.

The train continued to speed smoothly over the ground, a steady thrum the only indication that it was moving. Harry let out a breath before strolling down the carriage, chin up and posture stiff. 

He’d noticed the stares at the train station - of course he had. They were bloody obvious. Not just from the students either. The worst were the parents, openly gawking and talking about them when he and Tom had arrived at the station. 

The stupid black letters from The Daily Prophet flashed before him again. _THE BOY WHO LIVED!_

Harry cursed whichever idiot reporter had decided that was a good idea. Did they really not stop and think, for just one second, what impact that ridiculous headline would have on him? Of course they didn’t. As Tom had said (rather poisonously), sensationalist lies were the foundation of their career - his misery was how they made their living.

He scrubbed a tired hand over his face and stopped, staring to look out the window in the corridor. It felt like he was hiding by staying in the carriage this whole time, safe under the protective glares of his friends. He had to get over it himself - they weren’t going to be there all the time. 

It was just… the staring and whispering took some getting used it. He could hear them talking about him, even from out here. It shouldn’t have hurt, but hearing them say he was cursed - that everyone close to him died.

It was painful.

He drew in a breath and made his way down the carriage to the bathroom, forcing himself to walk slowly and casually with his head held high, like he was unaffected by it all. 

 

 

 

 

Harry woke up and knew instantly what day it was. September 9th: Tom’s fourteenth birthday. He’d been looking forward to the day, even though Tom had never mentioned it, for a while now. Turning over, Harry buried himself further in the warm duvet, greedily inhaling Tom’s sandalwood scent. He’d woken up alone as usual, as the other boy normally woke up far earlier than he did, even on the weekend. Actually, he’d been seeing noticeably less of Tom recently. It wasn’t like before the summer break - Tom wasn’t distant and full of blistering grief like he had been back then. They still curled up in Tom’s bed together most nights (to Harry’s relieved, silent embarrassment), still ate meals together, still partnered up in the steadily decreasing number of classes they shared. 

He knew why this was: whilst Harry was still struggling to cope with the changed attitude the school now held towards him (even a month since term had begun), Tom had been subtly and surely amassing followers. Minions, Harry called them privately, cracking a smirk every time he did so. The other boy had seemed to capitalise on people’s sympathy and, along with his charisma, which he’d apparently been hiding away all this time, had been using his good looks and remarkable intelligence to win over most of the Slytherin in their year and quite a few Ravenclaws. It probably didn’t hurt that purebloods like Draco and Oliver seemed to afford him a great deal of respect. The fear of Tom still presided, but some of the more influential students seemed to have actually taken a genuine liking to him. Harry wasn’t completely surprised: he new first-hand how jarringly charming Tom could be if he wanted to. And Slytherins were rather easy to charm - simply show them a little power and they were yours. 

Tom’s followers were always pleasant enough to Harry - they seemed to treat him with respect… but, to his increasing annoyance, they almost point-blank refused to engage with him beyond polite banality. It was almost like they were a little fearful to go father than that - probably, Harry assumed, down to his sterling “cursed” reputation. 

Anyway, today was Tom’s birthday, which meant that Tom was finally fourteen. 

Harry stretched his arms out in bed, hearing his shoulders click, before groggily getting up and trudging into the bathroom, increasing the temperature of the shower (Tom showered cold, the _heathen_ ) before stepping under the spray. He was planning to give Tom the intricate metal flower he’d made in transfiguration class. It was probably the best work he’d ever done - Harry didn’t necessarily think of himself as artistic, but it was something he’d put a lot of effort into, even crafting a tiny silver snake to wrap around the stem, capable of holding a small amount of liquid in its mouth. Harry had thought it would be useful for conspicuously storing potions, or antidotes in the future. He’d even wrapped it up as best he could in wrapping paper… but it looked like a blob of scrunched green origami, instead of the neat square he’d envisaged.

He scrubbed at his hair, attacking it with shampoo. He’d have to find the right time to give it to Tom. _Where was the other boy, anyway?_

Harry finished getting ready, hastily tugging on a robe and jamming on his shoes, making sure to tuck the small present away in a pocket as he rushed out the room.

He found Tom in the common room, reading and sipping on coffee (as usual). Their common room was a beautiful sight in the late morning - large, enchanted glass windows were full of warm light, spilling in over regal sofas and chairs, the room draped in beautiful silver and green colours. Harry still felt groggy, hoping to wake himself up a bit by pouring himself some Earl Grey from the perpetually hot teapot on the marble coffee table. He slid in next to the other boy on the plush green sofa, sitting cross legged and taking a sip from the cup cradled between his hands.

“Happy birthday Tom.” Harry beamed. 

Tom looked a little surprised before uncharacteristically smiling back, eyes fond. It was a genuine Tom smile - not something Harry saw often. “Thank you, Harry. Nice of you to wake up.” He replied, setting his coffee down and fixing the other boy with an all-encompassing stare, like he was committing this moment to memory.

Harry felt himself blush slightly. His friend really did look a bit like an angel when he did that, red mouth curled upwards and dark blue eyes soft in the sunlight. 

“It’s ten o’clock: a perfectly _normal_ time to wake up on a Saturday.” Harry stammered out, trying to diffuse the strange tension that seemed to be present and willing his face to cool down.

Tom raised his eyebrows. “I really don’t understand how you can sleep for so long.” To Harry’s surprise, he reached out with long fingers, sliding them across Harry’s scalp and through his wet hair. He frowned, muttering something under his breath. “You should dry this - wandering around with wet hair isn’t good for you.”

Holding his breath, Harry felt a warmth bloom across his scalp, before hearing the hiss of steam rising from his head as his hair instantly dried. “Thanks?” He said, still feeling a bit off. 

Tom grinned, using the same hand to mess up Harry’s now-dry hair even further. “You’re very welcome.” He said lightly, as Harry spluttered, trying to push the other boy’s hand away. 

His robe sleeve shifted as he did so, and Harry belatedly noticed that he’d forgotten to top up the concealment charm. The mark was faded, but definitely visible, grey skull apparent on his wrist. Tom caught his arm as they both noticed. “Crap.” Harry swore under his breath. This was the first time he’d forgotten. 

Tom was staring at it intently, like usual. Harry tried to inch away so he could cast the charm, but Tom’s grip was immovable. He gave a hard tug, pulling the other boy over so that Harry was almost leaning over his lap, the empty teacup rolling gently on the sofa, Harry mouth fell open in suprise, but before he could say anything Tom murmured the incantation, smoothing the mark over with his thumb and leaving pale white skin behind.

He shook his head, releasing Harry warily. “You need to be more careful.” Harry nodded, still a little off balance from the unnecessary man-handling. 

“I know, I know,” He muttered, trying to figure out if he was annoyed or flattered. Tom always did stuff like this, like he thought Harry was incapable of a simple spell. “I could have done that myself, you know. But thanks.”

Tom nodded, picking up the fallen china teacup and setting it down gently on the table in front of them. Harry looked around, feeling self-conscious. They weren’t the only ones in the common room - a few people floated about making themselves tea or coffee, having looked over at Harry’s yelp and glancing away sharply, pretending not to see anything. He scoffed internally.

“So… Any plans for today?” Trying to regain some dignity, he patted down his head, aiming to smooth his hair back into some semblance of order. Obviously, it didn’t work; his hair only had one style, and that was birds nest. 

Tom’s grin seemed to grow a little wider - whether at Harry’s plight or in anticipation, Harry didn’t know. The older boy leaned in closer, voice low as if he didn’t want to be overheard. “As a matter of fact, yes. I’ve organised something for tonight.” 

Harry stopped what he was doing, confused. “You mean like… a birthday party?” That was _so_ out of character for Tom.

Tom snorted softly. “Of sorts. You’ll see. I’m gathering people together - just a small, initial group.” Harry’s eyes widened as it dawned on him. 

“For what purpose?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

Tom smiled beautifully. “To gather some support.”

 

 

 

 

It was the end of the day, and Tom and Harry were waiting for the huge clock in the corner to strike midnight. They were in an old classroom that they’d found exploring back in their first year, waiting for the seven other students that Tom had invited to show up. It reminded Harry of the rooms in Ramelda’s manor - slightly old-fashioned, definitely disused but still in pristine condition, a perfect snapshot of Hogwarts ten years ago. There was still the remnant of barely discernible chalk words written in looping cursive on a blackboard behind them.

Harry sighed. They’d arrived a good half an hour early, expecting it to take longer for them to sneak out of the common room. Tom’s concealment charm had worked almost too efficiently though, and now they were stuck waiting.

It was, actually, a perfect time for Harry to give Tom his present. He had been putting it off all day and as they stood there in the dim light, surrounded by dusty desks, he suddenly found himself doubting it. The older boy had been receiving presents all day - from gourmet chocolate to lavishly charmed bags and even a few expensive potions. Why was he giving Tom such an small, ugly gift? He could have bought a nicer trinket from any number of shops which would have been much more elegant, robust and expertly crafted. Probably more useful too - he could have bought something charmed, or ancient, or powerful. It wasn’t like he didn’t have the money - he was the sole heir to the Potter fortune now. _Why didn’t he just buy a rare book like he had last year?_ Tom had loved it. 

Harry couldn’t suppress the irrational thought that Tom was going to laugh at it. Harry felt his cheeks heat as the other boy looked down at him curiously, probably noticing his sudden stiffness.

Oh well, it was now or never. And Tom would never laugh at him.

He fumbled around in his pocket, fingers alighting on the crumpled wrapping paper, and drew it out, steeling himself. _Get a grip, Harry_. He told himself firmly. Tom was staring down curiously as Harry held it out to him.

“It’s a gift.” Harry blurted out. _Why was this so nerve-wracking?_ “For your birthday.” He tacked on helpfully, instantly regretting it. _Obviously, for Merlin’s Sake_.

A small smile rose on Tom’s face as he took in Harry’s blushing face. “Thank you.” He said courteously, taking the gift. 

Harry stared at the ground whilst he heard the sound of the paper being torn and the small metal carving withdrawn. Tom was silent.

He chanced a glance up at Tom’s face. The other boy looked… pleased. Tom looked really pleased. 

“You made this?” He asked, holding it up to the floating lights and examining it intently, tracing the serpent gently with a finger.

“Yep.” Harry smiled weakly, heart thundering.

“It’s beautiful.” Tom turned to Harry and smiled. “Thank you.” 

A rush of warmth flooded Harry’s chest and he found himself grinning back. _Of course Tom would like it._

Tom glanced back to the trinket, eyes creasing as he found the catch in the serpent’s jaw, stretching open to show a little vial. 

“It’s Felix Felicis.” Harry blurted out. “Not that I made it myself, obviously - you don’t have to worry. I bought it.”

Tom chuckled, a rich velvety sound. “How charming.” He sounded completely honest.

He pocketed the small piece of metal and stepped closer to Harry. Without warning, Tom’s arms wrapped around Harry’s waist, cradling his torso in a warm embrace. Harry’s face was full of Tom’s shoulder, and he took the opportunity to breath the other boy in. 

Tom smelled like home. 

It felt nice to be held like this. It reminded him of how his parents would hug him, it was that feeling of safety and comfort, but also something else. Harry didn’t know how to describe it. It just made him feel happy and warm.

Tom placed a kiss on Harry’s mop of hair, before stepping away. Harry blinked up at him. The kiss itself wasn’t surprising - Tom had been doing stuff like that increasingly frequently. It was that he’d felt Tom stiffen up slightly. The real Tom smile had fallen off his face, replaced by his usual charming mask, and he was staring at the door. 

Sure enough, a second later it opened, and three hooded figures stepped through. Folding down the head of his cloak, Draco emerged, followed in suit by Oliver and Penelope (although she went by Pippa), another one of Harry’s classmates. He could sense the see-me-not power of their cloaks from here - it made his eyes itch to fight the urge to look away as Draco bundled up the cloak. Those were expensive items, and very much against school rules to own; a tangible testament to their familys’ power and wealth.

“Tom. Harry.” Draco nodded at both of them in turn before hopping up on an abandoned wooden counter. Pippa seemed slightly shy, and avoided Harry’ gaze, leaning against the wall with eyes wandering curiously about the room. Harry was a bit confused as to why Tom had picked her, before he remembered: her mother was the majority shareholder for the Daily Prophet. He bit back an initial reaction of irritation; she had nothing to do with what her mother’s paper published.

One by one, the other four students filed in. There were two more Slytherins, Amelia and Lupis, which Harry recognised from the year above (they probably shared classes with Tom), followed five minutes later by two dark-haired Ravenclaw students, a twin brother and sister. Harry was almost surprised - for some reason he’d just assumed that all of them would be in the same house. 

The two Ravenclaws stared at him as they entered the room, golden eyes lit up with interest, but still assessing. They really did look remarkably similar - the same height, same build, same pointed facial features.

Harry stared back, waiting for Tom to break the silence, trying to work out why they looked so familiar. He thought he might have seen them before in the paper… or on film, maybe?

Everyone was quiet, looking around warily at each other. It was dark aside from a few balls of blue light that Harry had conjured, casting a dim glow over the room and adding to the tense atmosphere. This felt really _real_ , Harry realised. It didn’t seem like they were having fun and sneaking around. They were actually breaking rules here, and if they were found they would be in trouble - which, for the children of such influential people, held a little more weight than it would for others. 

The knowledge seemed to saturate the air as they waited for Tom to speak. He didn’t keep them waiting long.

“Thank you all for coming; I appreciate your tact.” He started, turning around the room to make eye contact with each and every one of them. All eight were silent, Harry included, hanging off his every word. He was mildly impressed with Tom’s ability to command the room, but then again, he’d been sowing the seeds for weeks.

“You must be wondering why I called you all here.” His voice was soft and dripped like honey, oozing into the stillness of the room.

Nobody said anything, waiting patiently for Tom to continue.

“Well, it’s for a simple reason. - something which unites you all, no matter your age or your house.” He paused, _probably for effect_ Harry thought, inwardly amused.

“I asked you to come here because I believe each one of you standing here has the power to truly change the way that magical Britain is run.”

Harry could feel the change in the energy of the room, the interest rising as they watched Riddle sidle closer to where they were all leaning or sitting on the desks.

“We’re young at the moment and, without question, we require more knowledge and further learning. However it _is_ within our grasp to do something tangible, something great. We _can_ change things, but we must acquire the means to do so first.”

Tom spoke with such conviction that even Harry felt slightly swept up in it. He could tell the others did too, by their rapt stares. The twins were holding each other’s hands.

“What does that mean? What’s our plan?”

Tom turned a cool stare on Draco, who’s excitement withered slightly under it - he immediately looked like he regretted interrupting.

Tom addressed them all when he spoke, although he was still looking at Draco. “To listen out and learn what you can, whether at school or at home. Make connections, extend your reach. Become immovable. Integral. _Irreplaceable._ In exchange…”

The blue-eyed boy smiled slowly, his face cast half in shadow, still managing to look deceptively sweet and innocent.

“I will teach you some of the things that Hogwarts doesn’t want you to know. You will become more skilled and more powerful than your peers could ever dream to be.”

Looking around, Harry could see that Tom had chosen the seven of them carefully. All looked somber, serious at this prospect, but had their shoulders back and were standing tall with pride.

“We’ll meet infrequently at this stage - once a month, and I’ll send word a few days before.” Tom continued. “And remember: tell no one.”

Each and every one of them nodded, swearing quietly that they wouldn’t. Harry was still slightly unnerved by the silence - nobody was talking to each other, nobody had asked questions. Just quiet, silent acceptance. Or could he call it excitement? Glee? There was definitely a buzz in the air.

Draco was the first to leave shortly after, shouldering on his cloak and slipping out of the door. One by one they all exited the room, each of Tom’s hand-picked students navigating the corridors of Hogwarts with ease and quietly returning to the dorms without waking any slumbering portraits.

Eventually it was just Harry and Tom remaining, as it always was. They stood there in companionable quiet for a moment, savouring the monumentalism of what had just happened.

“Well. That went well, I think, didn’t it?” Harry murmured, running a hand through his hair before rubbing his face. Tom flashed him a smug grin. 

“I believe it did. I chose them all for a reason - all have influential parents, all have sufficient intelligence, and all at some stage have demonstrated an aptitude for the dark arts.” Harry found himself nodding along, before breaking the silence with an embarrassingly huge yawn. He couldn’t help himself - it just slipped out.

Tom smirked. 

“Shut up.” Harry mumbled half-heartedly. “It’s late.” 

Tom looked at the ornate clock in the corner, face with an alarming crack down the side but still ticking away. It showed 12.15am - they’d only been talking for fifteen minutes. 

“I suppose it is.” He turned to Harry, holding out a hand expectantly. “Let’s go back.”

 

 

 

 

Harry woke up with a dry mouth and a fuzzy head, and knew immediately that something was wrong. 

He felt out of control and overheated - his only relief was that Tom was there, cool hands running through Harry’s hair like he did that time when Harry had dragon pox in second year, but this time it wasn’t cooling him down - if anything he felt hotter. 

Tom’s familiar sandalwood warmth was next to him in the bed, heavy magical aura saturating the air around him, and he felt that familiar hard grip on his wrist, where the mark was, making him jolt with how nice it felt. He was held in place, unable to move whilst Tom’s other hand slid down, stroking his stomach with those slender fingers. He felt a kiss gently placed on the top of his head. 

Harry distantly realised they were both naked from the waist up, and everytime Tom’s skin brushed his, electricity sizzled down his spine. He couldn’t think properly, couldn’t stop himself arching _towards_ Tom, instead of away - like he should be doing, like any sane person would have done. His head was too hot for cognitive thought, the lack of air making him dizzy with the need for something. Something was building, coalescing, gaining momentum—

Harry awoke, a great slam into waking. His breath felt like it had been punched out of him and he was trembling, sticky with sweat beneath the twisted tangle of his legs in the sheet. 

Tom was, once again, nowhere to be seen.

Harry sat up, breaths still heaving out of him, and immediately noticed the wetness between his legs. His face began to burn. 

He knew what this was - he’d heard all the other boys talk about it, and they’d covered it briefly when they’d studied Human Biology in his Medicinal Magics class. Wincing and supressing a groan, he peeled back the sheet. He couldn’t ask the house elf to deal with this, it was too embarrassing.

Gingerly stepping out of bed, he grabbed his wand from his bedside table, across the room, and pointed it at the sheets. His body was still buzzing, and he felt pleasantly achey, cheeks flushed. 

The thought of Tom finding him here like this spurred Harry into action. “Scourgify!” He bit out clearly, perfectly executing the wand motion albeit with shaking hands. The sheets ruffled, as if moved by an invisible wind, before lying flat on Tom’s bed, now clean. Throwing his wand down, Harry stripped off his soft green pyjama trousers, bundling them up and chucking them in the straw hamper in the corner to be dealt with later. 

Panicked thoughts were running through his head, not so much about the _physicality_ of what had just happened (he was already thirteen, and understood that it was perfectly normal), but more about the small, tiny problem of _Tom_ taking the featured role. _What the hell was that about?!_ Harry hadn't really thought about Tom in that way up until this point; Tom was just... well, Tom was just _Tom_. But the other boy had felt so bloody _good_ in the dream, and Harry had felt so... safe. It had seemed almost natural. 

Harry was undeniably and head-swimmingly confused - at the apparent free will of his own subconscious. 

Just as he was about to enter the bathroom, the door to their room opened, Tom stepping through, frowning down in thought at the page held in his hand.

Harry yelped, grabbing the now-clean sheet off the bed and holding it in front of him like a shield. Tom’s eyes were wide in surprise as they first tracked to the wand on the bed, then down the length of Harry’s body. He must have looked a mess - lips and cheeks stained red, hair a mess (as usual), and body still shiny with sweat.

_Merlin’s beard, why was this happening? Which deity hated him?_

There was a beat of silence where they both stared at each other, frozen. Harry could see the cogs in Tom’s head start to whir, so he rather desperately backed towards the bathroom. 

“Just going to take a shower.” He said awkwardly high-pitched, trying to give a weak smile. 

Tom’s eyes once again flew to the bed and back to Harry. A smile began to appear on his face. “Sure.” He said, relaxing his posture, smirk in full force. 

_I can’t deal with this_ , Harry thought desperately, closing the door, now safely ensconced in the bathroom. Throwing the sheet to the ground in mortification, he hopped in the shower, turning it on full-blast. 

Tom’s timing was the _worst_. At least he’d managed to get rid of the evidence. Harry heart dropped as he considered something else - at least it had happened whilst the other boy had been out - imagine if they’d have woken in the same bed! Maybe he got off lightly all things considered.

 

 

 

 

Back in the room, Tom sat down on the bed, picking up Harry’s discarded wand consideringly. He let the pleased smile he'd been suppressing spread across his face as he studied it. Harry’s reaction had been both amusing and adorable - Tom had committed to memory the dazed, syrupy voice stammering out some excuse to leave. His mortification had been surprisingly satisfying; Tom placed that thought aside for later consideration. 

After the success of last night, they had both fallen asleep relatively quickly, only for Tom to have awoken pretty early, even by his standards, by Harry’s warm body squirming next to him in the bed. He’d frozen in surprise, unsure as to what was going on, before quickly realising that the other boy was still dreaming and fast asleep.

He’d had to leave the room when he’d heard the noise that came out of his best friend’s mouth as he clung to Tom harder. The other boy had had to seriously exercise his willpower as he carefully extracted himself, grabbing his clothes and leaving the room all together. 

Tom’s control wasn’t as untouchable as he’d thought.

He'd known exactly what was happening. The urge to stay - to categorise in clinical fascination all the expressions and noises Harry would make - was unexpectedly strong. He’d had to try to calm himself down with the knowledge that if he _was_ there when Harry awoke then the other boy would saturate the next few days with barely masked awkwardness - and they’d have taken a step back in Tom’s plan. 

So he'd left.

But coming back in this way was… fun. He still got to take in the beautiful heaving flush in the other boys chest, the wet, mortified eyes, the sheen of sleep sweat on his pale skin. But this way Harry got to keep a little more dignity which, graciously, Tom would let him have. 

After all, he had to look after the other boy - and Tom always kept his things well.


End file.
